


The Disconnect and Reconnect of Meeting

by Kari_Kurofai



Series: Wires!Verse [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: M/M, Warning for discussions of abuse and abusive relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:16:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kari_Kurofai/pseuds/Kari_Kurofai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The game is over, the disks broken, and life is moving on for Gavin. Too bad Michael can't seem to climb out of the rut playing <em>Wires</em> left him in. After all, he essentially killed the mistaken NPC version Gavin with his bare hands. How the hell is Michael supposed to share the same air as him with that sort of horrible, guilty weight on his heart? And worse, what's to say he won't fuck up and do something like that again? Sequel to <em>The Wires That Connect Me To You</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Disconnect and Reconnect of Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Well here it finally is. And despite having hoarded it for months and rewriting it three and a half times, I'm still not sure I want to post it. But a promise is a promise. If you missed the tags - Warning for discussions of abuse and abusive relationships. Also if you didn't read The Wires That Connect Me To You, you're going to be massively lost.

It would be better, Michael thinks as he walks the straight shot from his hotel to the little hole-in-the-wall game store, if there were blood on his hands to mark what he’s done. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right? When you kill someone there should be blood left behind, evidence of the life you’ve taken to act as a stain of guilt for all the world to see. But there’s no blood, no proof that he’s done anything wrong, no proof that he let his emotions get the best of him (again). No proof that Gavin ever existed at all.

NPCs don’t bleed. Not even glitched ones.

And god, how he wishes they did. Maybe if there were blood on his hands he would know for certain if Gavin had been a bit of botched up coding or an actual, sentient entity. After all, only living things bleed, right?

Then again, it would probably make the deep, sick feeling in his stomach all the worse. If Gavin wasn’t real, wasn’t alive by any definition of the word, then the weight of his guilt might lift a little. And if he was . . .

Lost in his thoughts, Michael shoves the door to Video Games open with more force than intended, wincing at the sound of the bell above it go ricocheting off into the displays of games. Shit. Well there goes any ideas of going about this in a calm and collected manner. He starts towards the sales counter, briefly noting the passive expression of the store’s owner. The old geezer doesn’t seem to be even the slightest bit phased by the fact that Michael just destroyed his bell. In fact, if Michael’s not mistake he’s indifferent to the fact that Michael just busted into his shop in general. Fucking weirdo.

He slams the grocery bag carrying the pathetic remnants of the game down on the counter, trying not to flinch at the sound of shattered disk bits clinking against each other as he does so. “I need another copy of this game.” Might as well be straightforward. Though if Michael remembers correctly, the shop owner himself is anything but. Last time he was a shifty little dude who spouted off nonsense shit like, _“Only people who need this store can find it.”_ Whatever the hell that means. Michael doesn’t have the patience for that sort of confuckery this time around. He has a plan of action. Get the game, get out, get to his interview and score his dream job.

Too bad that all goes to shit the second the old man peeks inside the bag. “Well I can’t tell what this used to be,” he says as he withdraws a handful of the broken pieces of disk.

A high, sudden, stifled-hiccup sort of sound catches Michael's attention before he can continue about his business. Whipping around, he finds himself face to face with a guy around his own age, green eyes and golden-brown hair. He has his hands over his mouth as if he’s only just cut off an exclamation or . . . Or a laugh . . . Michael narrows his eyes. Wow, fuck this guy. “The fuck is wrong with you?” he snaps, already annoyed by the guy’s very presence. “Got nowhere else to be catching flies and laughing at strangers? Close your mouth.” With a wave of his hand that goes well with his current Fuck Off attitude, Michael returns his attention to the old man. “Look, I bought this stupid thing here a few months ago when I was in town for a convention. Piece of shit was like five dollars and it was called _Wires_ or some crap like that.” He places his elbows on the counter and leans forward, eyes narrowing as he takes a second to wonder if classic Jersey intimidation techniques are effective in Texas.

Apparently not, since the old man doesn’t even bat a freaking eye before he replies, “I’m afraid we’re sold out of that game.”

Michael barely resists grinding his teeth at this news, stalled from doing so only by the sharp wrench in his heart and the obnoxious sound of that idiot to his left breathing like an asthmatic preschooler. Slowly, he turns to glare at the guy again, one arm still resting against the counter while the other falls to fist threateningly at his side. “Seriously, what’s your problem?” he growls. The guy shakes his head and looks at his feet, fingers clenching nervously into the bottom of his shirt. What a fucking weirdo. But at least it seems his hysterical breathing has toned it down, probably scared back into normality if Michael had anything to do with it. Good.

“You got a list of buyers or something, or are you obligated to keep that shit private?” he inquires, this time attempting to seem more considerate to this decrepit old dude and his piece of shit store. Being a calm and kind customer isn’t exactly something he’s good at, but it doesn’t hurt to try at this point. He can go back to his usual Hulk-smash stuff as soon as he gets a name for whoever has the last copy of _Wires_.

At this point, Michael’s starting to wonder if there’s actually a real, living owner of this dumbass shop or if there’s only the god damn Terminator standing before him to run the place, because the deadpan, cold look the old man levels him with just before he robotically says, “That information is not for public use,” is so far into Skynet level territory that Michael can’t even protest as vehemently as he’s wont to.

Instead, his reply is tired, curdled with weariness as he snaps out a much quieter, “Fine. It’s not like it was fucking important or anything,” before he trudges towards the shelves, every tense muscle in his body going lax with surrender. What the hell did he expect to find by coming here, anyways? A new copy of the game? And what guarantee was there that the glitch would carry over? What proof was there that Gavin hadn’t just been a once-in-a-lifetime coincidence? Wouldn’t it be better if he was?

That’s the ultimate question really, isn’t it, Michael thinks as he finds himself slouching in front of the empty space on the shelf where his own copy of _Wires_ had once rested back to front with the only other one in the world. What would hurt more, really, the knowledge that Gavin was just a regularly programmed NPC, or the knowledge that he wasn’t, that he was one of a kind and Michael Fucking Rage Quit Jones had snuffed him out in a fit of his trademark anger?

Each answer tastes just as bitter in his mouth as the other, but either way . . . Either way, Michael decides as he squares his shoulders, eyes still fixed on the empty space on the shelf, if he were standing here a few months ago with both copies of the game staring back at him, he’d still pick it up. Even knowing every single fucking thing that action would lead to, he’d still take that game and hand. So maybe that’s the most telling thing of all, the one fact that reminds him, whispers in his ear the despite the not-quite-there blood on his hands at the end of it all, _it was worth it_.

Glitch, NPC, scrambled-up shitty data, whatever, Gavin had been worth it. And even if it meant saving himself the grief, Michael would not change that for all the fucking world.

Slowly, he lets his hands unclench from his sides, his shoulders straightening and his head rising from its mourning tilt as he turns to head out. It’s then that he notices he’s no longer alone, an epiphany that causes him to freeze and wall up his defenses again, eyes narrowing at the person intruding on his thoughts. The guy, the same one who had been being an aggravating little weirdo at the counter, is still a few paces away, and he jumps when Michael’s eyes land on him, a nervous, “Ah,” escaping his lips. Michael scowls, daring him to say something.

“I just,” the guy falters. He’s that certain shade of flustered now, the one Michael quite enjoys wringing out of people who are too stupid not to piss him off. “You were looking for a game?”

Michael’s frown deepens. Does this wiggy nincompoop work here? Jesus, they just hire anyone for anything these days, don’t they. It must be his foreign flare that landed him the job. “Nice accent,” Michael says dryly.

The guy flushes a bit. Okay, what the fuck. “Thanks,” he smiles, “I was born with it. Do you mind if I ask about your game? I, er, recently bought and broke a game from here too, so . . .”

Ah, another unhappy customer. That makes a little more sense than an employee. This bouncy dude working for Mr. T-800 up there just didn’t seem right anyways. Michael shrugs, trying and failing not to give in to his urge to sigh. “It wasn’t that interesting, to tell you the truth. Most of it was complete fucking bullshit, glitched as hell, plotless, and without anything even slightly resembling a clear point or purpose.”

“Then why do you want a new copy?”

The genuine curiosity in the guys voice unsettles Michael for some reason. It gives every word an odd, almost distant tone, like its being echoed down a tunnel and striking off the walls to itch at the back of his brain. Somehow the voice should be familiar, every little accentuation and loll of the words striking some chord of knowing in him that he can’t quite find. But he keeps all that to himself, tucks the nagging itch in his mind back and away so he can focus on the matters at hand, which is his broken video game and an annoyingly inquisitive bystander to his sulking.

He twirls the bag of crushed game bits around a finger, feigning absent-mindedness as he replies, “Cause I fucked up. Crushed the thing without thinking and probably destroyed the only good piece of it.” Michael looks away. Why the fuck is he spilling all this to a god damn stranger? The guy doesn’t need to know, it’s none of his business. And yet the words just keep falling out of Michael’s mouth before he can stop them. “It’s going to sound really stupid.”

“I’m full of stupid,” the guy smirks. “I’m sure it can’t be anything too dumb in comparison.”

The chord is struck, and Michael sharply jerks his gaze up, eyebrows furrowing. Why it’s those words in particular that tug at and rip away the borders of déjà vu he’ll never quite know, but in that second, they trigger the itching in his brain to shift into one clear and concise thought. _Gavin_. He takes a moment, eyeing the guy up and down in an attempt to return himself to the realm of the sane because it’s not fucking possible. It’s just not. Gavin was part of a game. Gavin was data. And more than that, Gavin was for all intents and purposes _dead_. So even if this guy is sporting the same messy, wind-swept hair, the same green eyes, the same goofy smile, the same speech patterns, and even the same brand of sheer idiocy, it’s just not fucking possible. He’s probably just seeing things now, that’s just what happens when you miss someone. You begin to see their shadow in the features of every stranger. And god, does Michael miss Gavin, he feels his absence from the world he was never a part of like the phantom pain of a lost limb. It hurts. It hurts much more than he’ll ever admit. But like hell he’s going to let it affect him so badly, get the better of him until his imagination wanders and he starts to think every person he meets is the reflection of glitches coding.

Instinct however forces him to speak before he’s ready, before he’s calmed down the racing thrum of his heart. “You . . .” Michael clamps his mouth shut before he can get any further. What the hell even. What would he have said? There isn’t a single statement he could have uttered that would have ended that one fumbled one word sentence with any coherency. At least not without stuttering. And Michael Jones does not stutter, than you very much. He swallows down whatever he’d been going to say and shifts his gaze away from the guy, unwilling to let the sight of him unlock any more crazy from his mouth. “It’s nothing.”

That should really have ended the conversation right then and there. It was friggen universal code for, _“Please fuck off, I have emotions that I don’t want to share.”_ And yet the dumb fucker doesn’t even bat an eye, let alone make like a tree and fucking leave. Michael resists every urge to tear him a new one as the man starts to edge closer.

“This is probably going to sound a hundred times stupider than whatever it was you were going to say, but . . . I had a friend, once, a little while ago, and he was sort of a dick.” Michael purses his lips, but any interruptions about how he really doesn’t give a flying fuckadoodle are cut off when Gavin holds up a hand to silence him before he can start. Rude. “An adorable and nice when caught at the right moment sort of dick. And recently, he tried to insist we weren’t really friends because we were, hmm, separated, you could say, by various things. We weren’t really on the same plane, if you know what I mean.”

Michael arches an eyebrow at this. What the actual fuck was this nutball talking about? He couldn’t tell if the backwards-ass story was more reminiscent of _Twilight_ , or _The Twilight Zone_. Which, admittedly, was not too different from his own life at the moment. Well fuck. For a second, his expression seems to deter the guy, and his voice skips a bit over his words before he sucks in a steadying breath, green eyes locking with Michael’s. It’s electric, a sharp spark of a second that pulls the breath out of his own lungs while the guy keeps talking. “He told me that at the end of the day we weren’t friends because we were just ‘two jack offs dicking around in a game,’ that it wasn’t even ‘legit communication, just some bullshit coding. . .’”

There’s a bag in the guy’s hands Michael didn’t notice before, and the guy reaches into it now. Michael knows what’s in it before the disk case even reveals itself from the crinkled plastic, before the guy tilts it up so the title of the broken game is clearly displayed from him to read. He doesn’t need the rest of the sentence to be finished for him to know it because that little tickle, that little itch in his brain is now a full-blown mental scream.

 _Gavin. It’s Gavin. Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker, it’s Gavin_.

“‘. . . just some bullshit coding connected by some shitty _Wires_.’”

The world tilts dangerously beneath him, and Michael takes a step back, reaching behind him to try and steady himself against one of the flimsy shelves. Everything inside him is crying for him to do something, to say something, to just reach out and fucking touch the idiot and shake him while yelling, _“Seriously, what the fuck?!”_ but he can’t. The words, the motions, die before they can manifest, and Michael finds himself slipping down towards the floor with nothing but a pitiful, “Oh, fuck.” His gaze finds the game, the lettering that clearly spells out _Wires_ , and then focus on Gavin’s face. He wasn’t wrong. Every detail he’d seared into memory was there, and it was fucking real. And oh, hello, there’s the floor. “Oh holy _fuck_.”

To Michael’s complete and utter surprise, the floor and his face don’t make the contact he’d been expecting. Instead, firm hands catch him under the arms before his knees even hit the carpet. “Whoa, whoa, you donut! Don’t pass out!”

God, he’d missed that vocabulary. “Not passing out,” he mumbles, marveling at how his words sound dazed even to his own ears. “Just sitting down.” His back pressed firmly against the shelf, he leans forward and allows his head to fall to his knees. For some reason, he finds it hard to breathe, finds himself having to keep track of the rise and fall of his chest as if the mechanics that control breathing are muscles that must be used consciously. “Give me a minute,” Michael says, a hitch in his voice that betrays his fear that if he dares to look up now while he’s struggling for air, this real, living version of Gavin will turn out to be nothing more than the illusion of a grieving heart.

Except he can hear the same hitch in Gavin’s breaths too, and that sound is very, very real. He’s kneeling in front of Michael now, which Michael notes when he barely lifts his eyes, cracks them back open for the barest peek at this god damn miracle. Gavin smiles when he catches Michael looking. “This is mental,” Gavin says, and distantly Michael hears himself release a soft, choked laugh. “Completely mental.” Understatement of the fucking year.

The words finally seem to find their order in Michael’s throat, enough so for him to lift his head a bit more and voice the reason the last few minutes have left him so shaken. “I thought . . . I thought you were a glitch NPC.”

Gavin’s mouth quirks upwards. “I think we had a similar mindset there.”

And, god, it’s such a fucking relief. Such a fucking relief to raise his eyes to meet Gavin’s, to take in every inch of him and know that he’s standing here, outside of Wires, alive. “When I broke the game . . .” he starts, faltering as he realizes that this might not be information he wants to share. While Gavin might have revealed himself to be alive and real, that doesn’t do a thing to dry or clean the invisible blood on Michael’s hands.

“Thought you killed me?” Gavin fills in for him, startling Michael out of his shadowed thoughts. “Sorry, can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Michael blinks, every fiber in his being singing in relief over something so simple. _Thank god for that_ , he thinks. _Thank. God_. He smiles. “Clearly.”

Later, neither of them will be sure who laughed first, or what exactly triggered it. Gavin will claim it was the vast and overwhelming amount of sarcasm in the room, and Michael will pin it on that weird elated delirium of knowing that for one freaking minute, everything was finally right in the world. Whatever the reason, they both find themselves dissolving into high peels of laughter. And by the time they stop, by the time Michael’s ribs hurt and Gavin’s extending a hand towards him, it all somehow seems right. It shouldn’t, what with all the wacked up shit that led to this moment, but it does. “Should probably introduce myself properly, yeah? I’m Gavin Free, pleased to meet you.”

“Michael Jones.”

It’s cheesy as all hell, Michael knows, to consider the moment their hands meet electric. But it is. The second they make contact it’s like he stuck his finger in an socket, the current working its way up his arm and through the rest of him until he’s left breathless and wordless in the face of Gavin’s endless grin. “I’m glad,” Gavin says, so softly that it takes Michael a heartbeat to register the words, “that you weren’t just a glitch.”

The admission, every word of it a reflection of the relief in Michael’s veins, makes his stomach loop. Michael blinks a few times to dispel the sensation before huffing out a faux exasperated breath. “If anyone was the glitch between us, it would have been you. With your fucking made up nonsense words and tendency to trip. In a game. Who the fuck trips in a videogame?”

Gavin gapes at him, seemingly stunned by the sudden shift in tone, before scowling. “Faff is not a made up word!”

The reaction is so swift, so easy as if they’ve been bantering all their lives, that Michael can’t help but laugh again. “Not even going to try defending the tripping?”

“No, I acknowledge that that was bollocks of me. And I’m still not sure how it happened once, let alone repeatedly.” Gavin cracks another smile and gets to his feet before extending a hand towards Michael, who doesn’t even hesitate to take it. The strength of Gavin’s grip this time around is surprisingly tight, and it doesn’t lessen once Michael is standing. Michael tries not to let his gaze flicker to where their hands are still locked when Gavin speaks again. “I’ve got a spare coffee and a bit of spare time.”

Michael opens his mouth, eager to accept the offer, but quickly snaps it shut again. Shit, wait. He can’t. He has a fucking interview to get to. But, god, if he leaves now . . . If he leaves that might just be the end of it. And that’s how it’s supposed to go, isn’t it, when you meet someone. You shake hands, exchange pleasantries, and carry on your separate ways. Michael’s done it a hundred times with a hundred different people, but never before has the prospect felt so daunting, so final. As if turning away now will be as good as smashing the disk for _Wires_ all over again.

Then again, maybe that’s how it has to be. Who the fuck is he to say which moments in his life mean more than others, or which ones are life changing events. It’s not as if he believes in shit like destiny anyways. So while Gavin’s hand is warm in his, and his heart is still stuttering out a drum beat in his chest, maybe it’s better this way. Better to allow this to be just what it is, a moment, and nothing more. Better to let it live as a shining memory than give it the chance to continue and spiral into disaster.

After all, that was what lead to the bits of crushed disk now littering the floor. It’s probably for the best to part now than risk a similar outcome.

Michael lowers his eyes and attempts a smile. He knows the expression must look as forced as it feels by the way Gavin’s face falls, and his grip loosens around Michael’s hand. “I actually have an interview to get to, and I’m not entirely sure how to get to the building from here.” He drops Gavin’s hand, fingers flexing in their sudden coldness at his side before he slips them into his pocket to brush against the Google Maps directions he’d printed out that morning. Oh. That’s right. He still has no idea where the fuck he’s going. His mind had been so focused on the game store that he hadn’t bothered to decipher the map. Michael withdraws it from his pocket and unfolds it, breath hitching a bit as he holds it out towards Gavin.

He should end it all now, but every single inch of his body is resisting the very idea. Fuck it. Fine. He’ll get Gavin to show him how to get to the office and _then_ they’ll part ways.

Apparently though that’s not an option, as Gavin’s eyes widen the second they alight upon the map, a wobbly grin splitting his features. “You’ve got to be joking. The universe is messing with me right now.” He waves the paper in front of Michael’s face, and Michael steps back. “You’re interviewing at the Rooster Teeth office? Seriously?!”

Now see, the thing is, Michael hasn’t been involved with the Rooster Teeth community all that long. Sure, he used to watch the videos all the time, was really into _Red VS Blue_ when he was in high school and followed Achievement Hunter when they were just a two man team, but he never kept up with it well once he graduated and got tossed out into the adult world ass over heels. He had a fucking job, had to work to eat and pay the rent. The only thing he participated in with them by that point was the occasional Rage Quit video posted to the community channel, which was a whole other world from the big boys up top most days.

But as soon as Gavin shouts his exasperation, as soon as he’s thrown his hands in the air as if Michael Jones is the dumbest idiot on the planet, Michael knows he’s somehow missed a very important detail. Although it continues to escape him what it is.

“Well, yeah,” he tries to explain, “I got called in the other day. Remember when I said-”

“You said you’d got a call! Not a call from Rooster Teeth, you donut! We could have sorted this all out ages ago if you’d been specific!” Gavin throws the paper aside and grabs Michael’s arm, “Come on, I’m getting you that job.”

It hits Michael like a god damn ton of bricks. Gavin works there. Gavin’s a member of Achievement Hunter. He’s fucking seen Gavin’s name in comments and journal entries and forums before. He’d just never made the connection. How could he have? Who would have possibly made the connection between a seemingly glitched NPC in a videogame and a professional videogame player?

. . . Well when put that way, it’s a little less far fetched. But still.

And now, Michael realizes with a hint of panic, there’s no way they’ll be able to go their separate ways. Their path is, at this moment in time with Gavin dragging him out of the shoddy little shop and onto the streets of Austen, Texas, quite literally the same. Michael can’t tell if he should be alarmed or ecstatic about this. There’s no longer an emergency escape hatch available to him, though maybe that’s a good thing because, honestly, he never really wanted it in the first place. It was the easy out.

He stops dragging his feet as Gavin pulls him along, allowing himself to even his steps with Gavin’s as they come to a halt at a crosswalk. “So, I’m guessing you work there then?” he jokes.

Gavin rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Such a weird little idiot.”

So yeah, Michael thinks, maybe they can do this.

Or at least he sure as hell is going to try.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Now here’s the thing, while Michael had been the biggest slacker when it came to watching Achievement Hunter videos for the past few years, he still sure as fuck knew who Ray was. As the official third member of the team, holder of the highest gamer score between the five members, and both Geoff and the fandom’s little golden boy, he’d be hard pressed not to know. And while Ray is a forgetful ninny about it (as assumed by the fact that he tends to answer Michael’s emails with more question marks than The Riddler’s ungodly green suit), they’d even collaborated a few times. So yeah, Michael knows who Ray is.

Ray however seems to have no idea who he is. Michael stares at him upon entering the office, taking in Ray’s wide-eyed, utterly befuddled expression that combined with the glasses perched on the edge of his nose make him look very much like an owl. He blinks at them a few times, gaze flickering between Michael and Gavin, who is currently hanging off of Michael’s arm like a friggen leech. It’s one of those moments that Michael desperately wishes he could read minds, because the level at which Ray’s confusion is rippling through the office is alarming.

Although if he could read minds, Ray’s train of thought would probably sound a lot like this.

_Why is Gavin late? Does it really take that long to sort out dependency issues at a videogame store? Where the hell is my coffee? Oh, Gavin’s here ad he’s brought - wait, who the fuck is that? He has my coffee? Why does he have my coffee? Why is Gavin grinning like a loon? Coffee?_

Which is just as nonsense as his expression, so maybe Michael’s glad he’s not Professor X.

“Coffee . . .” Ray whines, and Michael realizes that the empty cup he’s currently holding was probably originally meant for Ray. Oops. “I can’t process all of this without my coffee.”

“Er,” Michael swallows. Telling a possible future coworker you drank his coffee probably isn’t the best way to start off.

Luckily, Gavin saves him the trouble by taking the cup from him and tossing it unceremoniously into the wastebasket at the end of the row of desks. The utter devastation that crosses Ray’s face as the empty cup lands in the basket with a pitiful, hollow thump is priceless. “Sorry,” Gavin says, “I used it for more important matters.”

Ray’s eyes are now studiously fixed on the trashcan, and he doesn’t even raise them to mutter a miserable, “More important than bringing coffee to a tired X-Ray? Vav, you’re a monster. You’re fired as a sidekick.” He glares at them a moment longer, then sighs and leans back in his chair again. “Which brings me to my next complaint. Who’s this, and why the hell did you give him my coffee?”

Michael doesn’t quite know which is more amusing; the way Gavin is just about to jump out of his skin with excitement or the epic attempt Ray’s eyebrows are making to ascend to the heavens as he watches. Fortunately, the fates decide for him because when Gavin chirps out a high-pitched, “It’s Michael!” Ray leans so far back in his chair that if it weren’t for the wall directly behind him, he would have tipped right over.

“Excuse me?” the other man’s voice is nearly as high as Gavin’s now as he peers at Michael over the top of his glasses. “Michael as in glitched-up NPC Michael?” Well, that clarifies that Gavin hasn’t been quite so tight-lipped about the events of _Wires_ as Michael. Ray’s gaze turns from surprised to concerned a second later. “Gav . . . Look, I know breaking the game did a number on you, but you can’t go accosting random strangers and dragging them into the office just so-”

“No, wait,” Michael cuts him off, and Ray pauses to purse his lips, clearly wanting to give Michael a piece of his mind as well. “He didn’t . . .” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose with the hand of the arm Gavin isn’t currently clinging to. “I am Michael.”

Ray narrows his eyes. “You materialized out of a video game? Jesus, I should call the papers, what a story that is.”

“No-” Michael starts. “I-”

“No!” Gavin interrupts. “We met at the game shop! He turned out to be a bit real!”

Michael turns to Gavin, one eyebrow raised, “What the fuck are you talking about, Grabbin? A bit? Like only this hand,” he holds one up, “and like, what, half my face and maybe my little toe are real?”

“Nah, more like the one elbow, your ears, and a couple centimeters of your pasty skin.”

Lapsing into the banter is too easy, like they’ve been doing it for months or years rather than minutes. Which makes it harder to notice the difference, the changes between the pixilated world of _Wires_ and the real one, because they don’t treat it any differently. Michael elbows Gavin in the ribs, smirking as the other man pretends to double over. There’s no pause to acknowledge Ray’s startled sounding, “Oh” before Gavin has swung a leg behind Michael’s and sent him hurtling towards the floor. Michael has just enough time to flail a hand into the front of Gavin’s shirt as he falls, and then they’re crashing to the carpet, Gavin shrieking in laughter all the way down. There’s barely a breath of air between them, Gavin kneeling over Michael with only his mirth-trembling arms to support him, and Michael’s too winded to point out how close they are, and far far too distracted by the peal of Gavin’s voice in his ears.

“God, you’re a dick!” he says as soon as he finds his air. It only takes a swift hook of his leg around one of Gavin’s to gain the upper hand and flip their positions. Michael pins Gavin’s wrists to the floor above his head, effectively stilling any of the other man’s struggling. “A weedy little asshole like you should know better than to fuck with a guy from Jersey,” he teases.

The realization comes when Gavin’s laughter starts to die down, when Michael notices that aside from the initial wiggle or two Gavin hadn’t moved to fight against him. And really, with Michael straddling Gavin’s hips and holding his wrists over his head with mere inches left between them, his heart stuttering in his chest, the recollection is inevitable. It all comes flashing back to Michael in a wave, the game in his hands, the sound of it shattering as he crushes it, the bile in his throat as he realizes what he’s done.

“Why is it gay as dicks in here?”

Every single inch of Michael freezes as the annoyed voice hits him like a splash of cold water. “Oh god,” he says, the words barely a hiss of panic on the tip of his tongue. Below him, Gavin’s eyes widen in what Michael is sure is an expression that decently mirrors his own. “I have an interview.”

They’re scrambling to their feet in the next second, Michael pulling Gavin up by the wrists he’d had pinned a moment before and Gavin shaking off his grip and brushing his fingers down the front of his wrinkled shirt. “S-sorry, Geoff. I just . . .” Gavin flushes and glances up to where Geoff Ramsey is currently standing in the doorway to the Achievement Hunter office, his arms folded over his chest and a small frown on his face. “Michael and I are friends. We were just faffing about.”

Geoff turns his unamused expression to Michael for clarification, and Michael snaps to an almost soldier like stance of attention. “Um, yeah. Wrestling and . . . And guy stuff.”

“Technically because you are both guys _anything_ you do is guy stuff,” Geoff says. Michael stiffens. “Whatever dude, I honestly don’t give a flying shit. Just don’t do it on the floor I have to walk on.”

“We weren’t-” Gavin starts, but whatever else he was going to say dies in his throat as Geoff points a finger towards the desk closest to the door.

“You, work. You have a Minecraft Let’s Play to edit that’s supposed to be posted tomorrow, don’t you?” Gavin nods and dutifully marches to his seat, shoulders hunched so that he doesn’t meet Michael’s eyes when he passes him. “And you,” Geoff crooks a finger to Michael, “I think one of the meeting rooms is open, that is if Kerry isn’t holding another Butts assembly.” He turns and heads out the door, and Michael stands there for a heartbeat before hurrying after him.

It’s astonishing, really, how fast he managed to fuck things up this time. He’s been at the office for less than ten minutes and he’s already gotten Gavin in trouble and landed his own ass in an equally sorry state. At this rate he’ll be lucky if Geoff sends him off with minimal humiliation. Michael keeps his head down as they walk the distance from the Achievement Hunter office to the meeting room. Once they reach it Geoff holds the door open for him while Michael slumps inside.

“Take a seat.” Geoff indicates the chair on the far side of the table as he takes one for himself closer to the door. _Trapped_ , Michael thinks as he shuffles towards the offered chair and does as directed. Neither of them speaks for a moment, Michael keeping his hands in his pocket and his gaze fixed on the table between them until Geoff clears his throat. “I don’t know how many interviews you’ve had in the past, Michael, but usually it’s best to make eye contact with someone who might be your future boss.”

“Future boss” still implies that there’s a possible future to be had. Immediately Michael sits up, straightening his spine and folding his hands together on his lap.

“Better.” Geoff smiles. “You know, I usually don’t start my interviews with lectures.”

Welp, there goes that spark of hope. Buh-bye Rooster Teeth career.

Geoff leans back in his chair, “I feel it’s best if I make myself clear as soon as possible though, which means telling you that if you fucking hurt that kid I’m going to murder you so hard they’ll never be able to piece you back together.”

Wait . . . _What_? Michael blinks, letting this sink in long enough for his mind to properly wrap around it. “Um . . . Are you-”

“I’m talking about Gavin,” Geoff confirms. “The little asshole is like a son to me, and if you end up being a dickwad to him you’re a dead man.” He smirks. “Got it?”

The very thought sends another rush of nausea through Michael. How the fuck is he supposed to not hurt Gavin if he’s already done so. Just because Gavin turned out not to be an NPC doesn’t change the fact that Michael had intentionally attempted to do the version of Gavin he knew in the game serious harm. And now Geoff’s implying he might do the same in real life. He would never, could never . . . Right?

He shakes that horrifying thought aside in place of mulling over Geoff’s almost fatherly-tone, as though he thinks Michael and Gavin are something of an item. Weird.

“Got it,” Michael responds. “Except, I . . . Sir, we’re not-”

“I can see that,” Geoff says. “But I’m also not a fucking idiot. You’re the one he’s been so hung up over these past few months, aren’t you? The one he stayed late at the office for? You were playing games together, right?”

The guys intuition is so spot on it’s scary. And Michael can tell that’s all it is, too, because he neither mentions _Wires_ or the mix up between human and NPC directly. Everything he knows is inferred. Which might actually be worse.

“I don’t care if you’re just friends or butt buddies,” Geoff continues, “If you hurt Gavin in any way you’re not going to have just me on your ass, but the entire company. I hope you’re aware of that.” Michael barely has time to process the storm of threats being fired at him before Geoff’s pulling a sheet of pink paper out of nowhere and sliding it across the table. “Moving on, here’s this thing. Sorry about the color, Barbara was in charge of printing this week. If you could fill it out and bring it back by next Monday that would be fantastic.”

Michael slowly looks down to stare at it, jaw dropping when he realizes exactly what’s on the paper. “Sir, this is a W-4. I don’t need this unless I-”

“Unless you’re hired,” Geoff finishes for him. “Congrats. You’ll be wanting a set of office keys too.” He slides a key ring across the table as well. “There’s three on there, one for the main door, one for the A.H. room, and another for the gate.” It’s far too much for Michael to comprehend all at once, so instead he gapes at Geoff in stunned silence. Geoff in turn rolls his eyes. “I liked your work the best out of everyone else we were considering, which is why I put you off till last. You were pretty much a shoo-in from the start. Besides, I think Gav would cry if I tossed you out. So there you go.” He points a warning finger at Michael. “Don’t you go crying though, I swear to god. I saw enough sissy shit five minutes ago to last me for the rest of the day.”

Michael gingerly picks up the keys, handling them as if he’s just been given the key to the city rather than a couple of dingy ones to an overcrowded office of nerds. “Th-thank you, sir!”

“Geoff,” Geoff corrects. “Only call me sir if you’re trying to massively kiss ass. Which is fine, but rather unnecessary at this moment as I’ve already given you the job. You can kiss ass when you start on Monday. And maybe I’ll give you treats. Like a dog.” He grins and holds out a hand, “Welcome to the team, Michael Jones.”

Michael takes the hand and shakes it, desperately hoping his grip isn’t quite as week as his hands feel. “I seriously won’t let you down,” he says in a rush. “Like, fuck, I can’t even- Whatever you need me to do I’m your man.”

The restraint Geoff exhibits in not pointing out that Michael seems to already be someone else’s man (coughGavinFreecough) should win him a medal. But he’s not yet sure if such teasing is still out of bounds for such a new employee. Instead, he merely says, “Nah, we’re gonna have you jump right in to Let’s Plays as soon as possible. And some of that thing you did on your own before, Rage Quit. The fans are going to love you.” He bites down on the _“Almost as much as Gavin does”_ that begs to come out, and hopes Michael doesn’t mistake his self-control for a grimace. “You got somewhere to stay until you can find a place of your own?” he asks suddenly.

Michael releases his hand, “I’m at a hotel right now, but that gets kinda pricy. And I have to go back and pack up my stuff before Monday.”

“I’ll find someone in the office to put you up for awhile once you get here. Just text me your return flight details as soon as you have them and they’ll pick you up from the airport.” He tosses Michael his phone, laughing when Michael fumbles it a bit. “Sound good?”

“Sounds awesome,” Michael breathes. “Seriously, thank you so much.”

Geoff takes his phone back after Michael finishes putting in his number and waves it dismissively at him. “Don’t get all mushy on me, kid. I get enough of that crap from the rest of those brown-nosers.” He deposits the phone back in his pocket and sidles towards the door, throwing it open. “Speaking of . . .”

And there’s Gavin. Having been seemingly leaning very hard against the now open door, the sudden force of it swinging inward sends him falling flat on his face. Michael has to give him credit for the speed at which he recovers, as Gavin doesn’t even take time to lay on the floor and nurse his bruised nose/pride before he’s on his feet again. He grabs onto the front of Michael’s shirt, mouth already operating ten miles a minute. “Oh my god, Michael! I’m sorry! Did he fire you? Wait, he can’t fire you until you’re hired . . . Did he hire you and then fire you? It’s all my fault!”

Michael rolls his eyes and places his hands on Gavin’s shoulders. “Holy shit dude, breathe.” He waits while Gavin sucks in a hasty, deep breath and effectively stalls his running mouth. “Good. Now shut up so I can tell you I got hired,” Michael grins. For a heartbeat Gavin just stares at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed as the news sinks in.

“Good fish impression, Gavin,” Geoff snorts from where he’s still standing by the door. “Do you want a fucking sticker for it?”

“You’re gonna work here?”

The way Gavin says that, so quietly and with such wonder, it’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room. And Michael can’t seem to formulate a reply as his brain stutters and stalls over the sound of those words and across the tightening of Gavin’s fingers in the front of his shirt. He remembers, quite vividly in fact, how many times he’d pretended he could hear breathless notes like that on Gavin’s voice when it was nothing but words on a screen, how often he’d allowed himself to imagine moments like this. Once again he finds it amazing that he no longer has to, that Gavin is more than pixels and code and is actually living and real with a god damn beating heart Michael swears he can hear keeping time with his own.

But at the same time, it’s equally as frightening. There’s no longer any boundaries, any universe imposed barriers to stand between them and it’s like Michael has forgotten the social rules of personal space. Technically he’s known this real, living Gavin for barely an hour. It must look odd from the perspective of someone like Geoff to see him allow someone that he barely knows so close, so far into his bubble. Except isn’t the most important thing the fact that it doesn’t? The fact that from where Michael is standing it doesn’t feel weird, it isn’t odd. And god, he’ll never say it aloud but looking up the slight height gap between them, taking in the sight of Gavin’s rising elation and the slow smile spreading across his lips, it feels fucking right. It feels like they should have been doing this for years.

Too bad Michael still doesn’t really know what exactly “This” is supposed to be.

“What,” he says once he remembers that Gavin had asked him a question and he’s just spent the last minute staring into his eyes rather than answering, “Did you think I wouldn’t? Of course I got the job, dumbass! You get to see this beautiful mug every day starting next week!”

He doesn’t know which is more embarrassing, the squeal Gavin lets out or how tightly Michael suddenly finds himself being embraced. Actually, he definitely knows. The half cough, half snicker Geoff tries to smother behind a hand is the most embarrassing. Michael wonders if flipping off one’s soon-to-be boss is allowed, and does it anyways before he can mull it over for too long.

Geoff’s choking giggles evolve into a full blown laugh, and he shakes his head at them as he ducks out of the room. “You’ll fit right in,” he calls over his shoulder.

Apparently, Geoff’s speedy escape from the scene is the cue for Gavin to release him, and Michael is thankful because he wasn’t sure whether or not to employ the age-old excuse of being suffocated to death in order to escape. “You can have the middle desk,” Gavin gasps once he’s holding Michael at arm’s length again. “Ryan refused to take it so it’s totally yours. You can sit between me and Ray and . . .” He stalls, and Michael can’t help but smile as he watches the gears grind to a halt in Gavin’s thoughts. “Er, if you want to, that is,” he adds meekly.

Michael bites his lip, resting his elbow in the palm of one hand and his chin in the palm of the other as he pretends to mull the offer over. “Well, I don’t know . . .” He can practically hear the internal, screaming panic going through Gavin’s mind. “I’ve already shared the space of a virtual house with you, and that was a disaster.”

“But-”

“You’d probably fuck up my equipment, interfere with my recordings, fail spectacularly in all of the Let’s Plays and force me to rescue you . . .”

“Michael-”

“Not to mention annoy the shit out of me with your made up nonsense vocabulary.” He puffs out an over-exaggerated sigh and peeks up at Gavin out of the corner of his eyes. Immediately, he feels bad. The dejected look Gavin is giving the floor (apparently unable to meet Michael’s gaze any longer), is worse than that of a abandoned puppy. Michael groans and leans forward to take Gavin’s face between his hands. “You’re so fucking stupid it literally hurts.” He grins before another wave of hurt can wash through Gavin’s face. “Of course I’ll take the middle desk, idiot. I was just fucking around.”

The smirk that lights Gavin’s features is far too swift, and Michael curses internally as he realizes he’s fallen into a trap. “So was I,” Gavin says. He leaps out of Michael’s grasp and bounds towards the door, throwing it wide to shout, “Guys! Michael’s taking the desk next to mine because I’m his favorite!” into the hall.

Over the rising roar of snickers that follows, Michael mutters a dark, “I hate you so fucking much,” his face buried in his hands.

“You love me,” Gavin corrects, and god, Michael’s so glad his fingers are there to cover the flush that spreads across his cheeks. Not that Gavin would see it anyways, he’s too busy dashing out of the room to cavort about the office and tell everyone the news.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

When Michael had boarded the plane back to New Jersey, he thought the hardest thing would be saying goodbye, no matter how brief the time apart would be. It’s to his horror that he realizes the act of hugging and waving and promising to eat lunch together next Monday are in fact as easy as breathing. And perhaps that’s because while it happens, while he can still turn on his heel and catch a glimpse of Gavin’s hand spastically swaying on the other side of the airport security station, his mind is still able to grasp onto the fact that Gavin Free is a person that exists, that’s alive and breathing and now just a stain of blood on Michael’s hands. That thought stays in his mind for the next hour, through the tedious process of getting on the plane and taking off. It isn’t until the wifi has been enabled and Michael’s fingers are flying to open the IM window on his phone that everything goes horribly wrong.

As soon as the name GavinoFree appears on the screen, his stomach drops. It’s so close, just a few letters difference and lacking the shitty homemade game capitalization, and something in him shifts uncomfortably at the sight of it. They hadn’t had the time to have an in depth discussion of all that had occurred with _Wires_ , both in the game and out of it. It might have helped more if they had. Because the second Gavin’s name appears on his phone, the second a message pops up beside it, it’s like nothing ever changed.

And Michael panics. He knows, of fucking course he knows that Gavin’s fine, that Gavin’s back in Texas and alive and physical being that isn’t just blocky, destroyed pixels. But with the name on the screen and the peppy greeting typed out beside it, it’s like something inside him is incapable of connecting the two properly. His breath catches in his chest and the force of trying to regain it, trying to regenerate the flow of air to his lungs sends a sharp tremor down to his hands. _Gavin’s alive_ , he tries to remind himself as the phone drops onto the tray in front of him. _Gavin is real_.

_You didn’t kill Gavin._

He stares at the message on the screen, the tack of words that’s slowly lengthening the longer it takes him to reply.

_GavinoFree: How’s the flight?_

_GavinoFree: Is the wifi working?_

_GavinoFree: Michael?_

_GavinoFree: Are my messages getting through?_

_GavinoFree is typing . . ._

Michael clenches his fingers in his hair, leaning over the tray to rest his elbows on its surface and shield his phone and his rising panic from prying eyes. Slowly, he reaches out to type out a reply with a finger.

_MLP-MJones: Call me_

Immediately, Gavin’s typing notification disappears beneath Michael’s message, and it’s only a matter of seconds before his phone starts vibrating on the tray. Michael scoops it up, cradling it in one hand as he tugs the hood of his hoodie over his head. He slips the phone between the fabric and his ear, pillowing his head on his hands and resting himself against the window to sufficiently hide what he’s doing.

And then Gavin’s voice is in his ear. Michael sighs at the sound, the tightness in his chest loosening with every syllable. “You’re going to crash the plane,” Gavin says.

Michael smiles, “Mmm, I think it will be fine. I just . . . Dude, I freaked out.” He makes sure to whisper, the words barely audible even to his own ears. Luckily, the two old ladies taking up the other seats in his row look to be at least a million years old, and probably can’t hear for shit anyways.

There’s a pause after he speaks, a lull for Gavin to process this confession. “Because it reminded you of the game?”

“I guess.” Michael swallows. “It’s stupid, I know. I’m sorry, I-”

“No, no.” Gavin hastily cuts him off. “Michael, no. It’s not stupid. I mean I, uh . . . To put things into perspective for you and all you should know that I, um . . . I cried the first time I thought you’d glitched out.”

A short laugh escapes Michael. “Seriously?”

“Well I’m not the one currently having a panic attack miles above the ground.” To Michael’s surprise, there’s nothing sarcastic about that comment, no spite or snark to it. Instead, Gavin’s tone is soft with sympathy. It’s not quite the understanding Michael had hoped to find solace in, but it’s god damn close. He’ll take what he can get, and since it’s Gavin, it’s already more than he ever dared ask for.

Michael glances up as a flight attendant walks past, nonchalantly waving a hand when she offers him a packet of way-too-salty peanuts. He waits until she’s two more aisles down before he responds. “I know it’s cheesy as fuck,” he whispers into the phone, “but could you . . . Argh, forget it.” He chews on his lip, cutting himself off from further embarrassing himself. What the hell even would Gavin have said to a stupid request like the one on his mind?

“Tell me,” Gavin insists without pause. “And I’ll do it.”

It takes Michael a moment, a long minute of internal war with himself before he can mutter out a hasty, “Can you just talk to me for awhile? I know it’s stupid as shit but I . . . Just until my hands stop shaking.” His fingers are still curled between his head and the window, tapping out a nervous, uncontrollable rhythm against the closed shade. He hates to admit it, but he needs this. He needs to be able to hear Gavin’s voice to assure himself he’s alright.

Just until he can fall asleep and not dream of holding a crushed PC game in his hands.

“Yeah,” Gavin replies. “Course I can. I’ll put the phone on speaker while I make dinner, okay?”

“Holy shit,” Michael smiles, “You can actually cook without lighting the place on fire?”

“Hush your gibby little mouth or you’ll jinx it,” Gavin chuckles.

There’s a click as the phone is put down on what Michael assumes is a kitchen counter, and a rush of fresh noises hit his ear. The sound of the sink running, the rustle of food being pulled out grocery bags, the chop and grind of a knife against a cutting board, all over the lull of Gavin talking about some dumb conversation he had with Geoff in the car during the ride back from the airport. He carries on even though Michael doesn’t reply other than the occasional snort of laughter when Gavin’s cooking routine turns into a semi-musical. And Gavin keeps talking, keeps the onesided conversation going as he throws whatever he was cutting into a pan to fry, while he dishes it up and eats it, the phone carried over to the table, and until he can make out the muffled sounds of Michael snoring over the hum of the plane engine on the other side of the line.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

The thing Michael quickly learns about the Rooster Teeth office as a whole is that everyone there is a massive dickwad. Although this means he’s going to fit right in in the coming week, it also makes figuring out who he’s going to be staying with unreasonably difficult. Whenever he texts Geoff about it he gets a reply along the lines of “A secret.” He can’t decide whether that means Geoff keeps forgetting to arrange it and thus legitimately doesn’t know, or if he’s being purposefully obtuse. It’s probably a mixture of both.

When he asks Gavin (over the phone, as he doesn’t want a repeat of the plane incident anytime soon thank you very fucking much), Gavin’s response is a long and tedious warning about the horrors of living with Jack. Which is odd, considering that as far as Michael’s aware Gavin has never lived with Jack and in fact spent most of his early years at the company being put up at Geoff’s house. Ray however apparently did for nearly six months, and Gavin swears that it sounded awful. And Michael has to agree, even hearing the tales second hand makes him fairly certain camping out at Jack’s place is not a picnic he wants to partake in. He wouldn’t mind Geoff’s house, but as Geoff is currently housing one Ben King, two guests just seems like too much.

So it is that Michael has no idea who he’s staying with or even who is supposed to be picking him up at the airport when he lands back in Texas a week later. And if it weren’t for the obnoxiously large sign spelling “Welcome To Hell, Michael Jones” in glitter glue and neon puff paint, he would have surely wandered around clueless for quite awhile.

The sign, conveniently located right next to baggage claim, is held by two girls Michael doesn’t recognize. As his job is going to technically be Achievement Hunter focused, he didn’t bother to watch anything outside of old Let’s Plays while he packed. He desperately wishes now that he had, because approaching the pair with no idea who they are has got to be one of the most mortifying moments of his life.

Despite that he thinks he manages to hide it pretty well as he greets them with his usual flair of sarcasm.

“So did you guys make that yourselves or did you let Millie have a go?” Michael gestures to the sign, noticing that it sports a rather suspicious amount of jam on the corner.

One of the girls, a pretty redhead, doesn’t even miss a beat when she replies, “Nope. This shit is all Gavin.”

Michael takes a step back to look at it again, one eyebrow raised. “Now that you say that, I’m not even surprised. Although I am wondering why it says ‘Welcome to hell’ considering I know for a fact he loves his job.”

“Because he was shipped off to a convention last minute after Jack had to back out because of a sinus infection, and thus could not be here to greet you himself,” the second girl says, flipping her blond hair over her shoulder as she explains. “In fact, he whined about it all afternoon and made this sign last minute. We only just sent him off on his plane.”

The shift in Michael’s mood from fairly upbeat to intense grumpiness is instantaneous, and from the giggles that explode from both of the girls it must show on his face. “What the fuck, really?” he growls.

“Gavin said he texted you, but you must have had your phone off on the plane,” the redhead laughs. “But he made us promise to tell you he’s really sorry, and that he’ll call you when he lands.”

“He better fucking get me a gift from the con,” Michael mutters. He shoves his hands in his pockets and shoulders his duffle stuffed with a week’s worth of essentials a little higher on his shoulder. “So let’s get straight to the point then. Who am I going home with here?” The snort that escapes the blonde is unnerving, not to mention irritating, and Michael arches an eyebrow. “What?”

“Neither of us,” the blonde laughs, “We’re just your ride.”

The redhead nods seriously. “Yup. Besides, you wouldn’t want to stay at our place. Too much banging and no boys allowed.” She makes a very rude, very sexual gesture with her hands, leaving the blond to roll her eyes and support the jam-encrusted poster alone. Michael flushes and turns a pointed stare at the ceiling.

“Well, that was more information than should ever be shared before proper introductions.” The blonde holds out a hand, “I’m Barbara, by the way. And this is Lindsay. Although I wouldn’t shake her hand after that absurd scissoring motion there. It’s tainted now.”

Michael accepts the handshake and casts a sidelong glance at the aforementioned Lindsay, who looks offended by the mere notion that she’s not allowed to join in on the customary introductions. “Fist bump instead?” Michael offers.

Lindsay grins and slams her knuckles against Michael’s hard enough to make him wince, the added “Pa-kow!” sound effect she adds to the motion an accurate summary as Michael’s fairly certain she jammed at least one of his fingers.

Shaking his hand to try and clear the numbing after effects of that regretful fist bump, he asks, “So wait, who am I staying with then?”

“We have been sworn to secrecy,” Barbara says solemnly. “You are only to be safely delivered to the location and nothing more.” She spins to point a finger at Lindsay, “And you, spoiler mouth, I will break out the duct tape if you try and let it slip.”

“This sounds ominously like the setup for a murder,” Michael says. “And I’m tempted to start screaming ‘Stranger danger!’ instead of going anywhere with you.”

“You’re twenty-five,” Lindsay points out. “If you scream people are just going to think you’re messing around. So you should just come quietly.” She winks. “Besides, we’re cute girls. No one would ever believe we’re capable of murder.”

Barbara sighs, “Ignore her, she shares a desk with Ryan and it’s starting to go to her head.” She turns and motions for him to follow as she heads in general direction of the exit. “Now let’s get going. Airports have a weird smell and we’ve already been standing around inhaling it for way too long.”

During the walk to the car, which Barbara does indeed insist they walk to despite it being three entire lots away, Michael learns a good many things he really should have already learned about his coworkers. The first is that Lindsay is actually a member of Achievement Hunter despite not being in many Let’s Plays. “I fill in for Gavin sometimes when he dicks off to England,” she clarifies when Michael admits he’s never seen one with her in it. “It’s not that often, so I can understand why you haven’t seen one.”

“But Geoff pesters her to be in more all the time,” Barbara adds defensively. “We all think she should be a full time player instead of just editing and filming the Behind the Scenes features. If the dudebro fans weren’t such assholes-”

Lindsay waves a flustered, shushing hand. “Jesus, don’t tell him everything!”

Michael frowns, “If fuckwad fans are giving you shit for being a girl I’m sure I can scare them into shutting up.”

Barbara smiles, “It’s the internet, they’ll never shut up.”

Nodding, Lindsay agrees, “Unfortunately, she’s right. But thank you. That’s very chivalrous and cute of you.”

Michael desperately hopes the blush on his cheeks can be excused as burn from the albeit weaker winter Texas sun.

“If I weren’t used to the entire Hunter crew constantly flirting with each other I’d be jealous.” Barbara says, shooting a swift glare at Michael anyways, “But seriously, don’t get any ideas.” When Michael tries to sputter out a protest, she silences him with a condescending pat to the top of his head. “Don’t say anything dumb now, I’m the one driving the car and thus my life is in your hands until we get to our destination.”

“Our company is full of potential psychopaths,” Lindsay whispers. “And as Barbara has spent the last week being holed up with Gus to plan this year’s RTX she’s quickly climbing the ranks.”

Michael chuckles nervously, “Well if Gavin was here I wouldn’t be in much better shape, would I. What with his weird, backwards English driving.”

Lindsay huffs, “Ha, no. Gavin doesn’t drive. You’d be in far worse hands. Geoff tried to teach him once in the office parking lot and he literally screamed from the moment the car started till they hit the brakes.” She looks at Michael pityingly, “They were legit going like four miles an hour. It was embarrassing. So good luck going anywhere outside of a short walking distance from the apartment for the foreseeable future.”

Michael’s heart jumps a bit with realization just as Barbara snaps, “Oh for - Lindsay! I said not to spoil it!” That means he’s staying with Gavin, right? Rooming with Gavin fucking-not-an-NPC Free for the foreseeable future. Living with the same guy he shared and subsequently flooded virtual house with. And for the life of him, he can’t tell if he’s excited or petrified at the prospect. On one hand, this is the best fucking news he’s heard all day. He and Gavin get along like ham and cheese, they’ve spent the entire last week racking up long distance phone bills and skyping while Michael packed. Living together will probably be a blast.

But on the other hand . . . On the other, Michael remembers the painful crack of the game disk and the cold shiver of Geoff’s warning. Don’t hurt Gavin. Not again. And within the closed quarters of shared apartment space, it would be considered domestic, wouldn’t it. Michael swallows down a lump in his throat. Surely he would never . . .

Something of this confliction must show on his face, because Lindsay interrupts his thoughts with, “Dude, why the constipated look? I thought you guys were biffles or whatever.”

Well that has to be the most accurate description of their relationship Michael’s heard yet. Biffles or whatever. He needs a bumper sticker of that to slap on his non-existent car as soon as possible. “Just uh . . . Just not what I was expecting,” Michael stammers out when he notices that Lindsay is still waiting for a response. “I thought I was going to get put up at one of the older guys’ houses, which wouldn’t have come with any expectations. Gavin though . . . That’s going to require a bit of work.”

“The best situations always do,” Lindsay smiles. “He’s been gushing about how excited he is that you’re going to be working with us all week, he clearly thinks the world of you in his weird Gavin way. Don’t worry, I’m sure everything will work out fine.”

God, Michael hopes she’s right.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

You can tell a lot about someone by their living space. Gavin’s apartment is no exception. From the second Michael unlocks the door there’s no question that this space is singularly and wholly Gavin Free’s, each and every item, stain, scuffmark, and piece of furniture is like a person in and of itself, a reflection of its owner. Taking it all in, Michael can’t help but feel of wash of fondness at the sight, the nervous thrum of his heart slowing to a more comfortable beat. Despite Gavin’s absence, there is no denying that his presence is here, visible in the cluttered rooms of the apartment to greet Michael upon arrival.

He wanders inside, still clutching his duffle a little too tightly as he studies his surroundings. The door opens up right into a plush living room decorated by two black suede sofas and an obnoxiously large flat screen framed by stacks of video games and at least three different consoles. The coffee table between them is littered with a collection of DVDs, some cases open and empty, their disks lost in the mess. Immediately adjacent is the kitchen with nothing but a thin island separating the two rooms. Dirty dishes are balanced precariously in the sink, and the fridge is completely covered by children’s drawings held up by colorful alphabet magnets. A hallway branches out down the middle of the large space, and from where he’s standing Michael can make out three doors along it, one on each side and another on the end.

“One bath, two beds,” Lindsay says. “Gavin’s is on the right, so you’ll be using the spare one on the left.”

Barbara comes up and pats him consolingly on the arm. “That room probably contains a horde of things no one should ever see. You have my deepest condolences.” Michael blinks as she slaps a sticky note in his hand, staring blankly at the strings of numbers upon it. “Contact list,” Barbara explains. “Mine and Lindsay’s cells are at the top, along with our room number. We’re on the floor below you, and thankfully not directly beneath you. I also wrote down the room numbers for Kerry, who’s one floor up, and Monty, a floor above him. And if you want to mooch off of someone’s cable, Ray’s address is at the bottom. He’s only a block away. So don’t hesitate to call or come see us if you have any questions or simply wish to flee this pigsty.”

“I think I’ll be okay,” Michael grins. “Thanks.”

“Gavin said he’d call tonight after his plane lands,” Lindsay says as she and Barbara start to shuffle out. “And we’re supposed to tell you that there’s food in the fridge.”

“It’s all Hot Pockets,” Barbara warns. “Like two hundred million Hot Pockets. I’ve seen it. It’s like the college student’s wet dream in there.”

Once they’re gone, the door clicking shut behind them, Michael realizes he still hasn’t moved beyond his initial first steps into the apartment. Without Gavin here to show him around, he’s not quite sure what to do. Where is he supposed to set down his bag? Should he take his shoes off? What things is he allowed to use and touch and what’s off limits to him? It’s not like he can call or text Gavin either, because unlike him the other man has a sense of integrity when it comes to following airlines’ rules on cell phone use during flight.

Michael sucks in a determined breath and steps forward, moving across the room and into the hall towards the door Lindsay had indicated to be his. With Barbara’s warning still hanging heavily in his mind, he carefully inches the door open. To his surprise what lies beyond is like a whole other world in comparison to the rest of the apartment. A queen sized bed is tucked back into the corner, neatly made with a set of blue sheets and a comforter rolled up along the bottom of it. The closet to the left is shallow but wide, and has about a dozen empty hangers waiting inside it. And other than a small dresser near the door, the room is empty. There’s signs that it was recently used for storage, square imprints in the carpet where boxes probably rested not more than a day or so ago, but they’re gone now. Michael smiles, the image of Gavin hastily clearing a space for him among the clutter of the rest of the apartment far too amusing. “Stupid,” he mutters to himself.

Throwing his duffle onto the mattress, Michael wanders back out into the kitchen. Closer inspection of the fridge reveals that Barbara’s observation on the Hot Pockets wasn’t much of an exaggeration. The freezer is literally stuffed with them, all out of their original boxes so that Michael has no idea what the hell is in them. “Russian roulette then,” he says aloud before grabbing one and popping it into the microwave.

While it cooks he moves to inspect the drawings that clutter the surface of the fridge. As he guessed, all the pictures are signed Millie in crayon somewhere amidst the colorful, incomprehensible squiggles. He spots one that bears what can only be a likeness of Gavin holding hands with another figure, who from height alone Michael assumes must be the artist herself. It’s the nose that gives away the caricature of Gavin though, the circle of it taking up the majority of his face.

The microwave beeps, and Michael snatches his prize out of it as he makes his way back down the hall. He hesitates to pry into Gavin’s more personal quarters, but now that he finds himself alone for the rest of the day as well as the entirety of the weekend, he can’t help but peek. At first glance and passing he thought the door had been entirely closed, but as he approaches it head on he sees it’s ajar by a good two inches or so. With a gentle nudge, he pushes it open and pokes his head in. Almost immediately, a sharp laugh escapes him. The room is clearly the place Gavin had chosen to move everything that was most likely stored in the spare bedroom, and there are boxes and scattered from doorway to window. They hardly hide the décor, to Michael’s gratitude, and he takes in the sight of nearly every poster from the Rooster Teeth store practically wallpapering the place. Moving on from the rather obsessive merchandise collection, Michael’s gaze falls to the bed and freezes as he notices what is perhaps the most important fixture of the room.

The little, light brown tabby cat lets out a confused mew.

Michael’s never been much of a cat person, or even an animal person in general. It’s not that he doesn’t like them, or is scared of them or any wussy shit like that. He likes them just fine. The simple fact of the matter is that he just doesn’t trust himself to take care of them. He had a hamster once when he was seven and dropped the poor thing on the ground, and he hasn’t forgotten. So when his eyes meet that of the curled up tabby, his first worry is that with Gavin gone, he’s going to have to look after it. “Fuck,” he whispers.

Cautiously, he approaches the cat until he’s standing beside the bed, staring down it, confused and horrified by the responsibilities and expectations that rest behind such a small creature. It’s clear that by leaving her here (Micheal’s not sure if it’s actually a girl, but he sure as hell isn’t going to check to confirm or deny) Gavin thought Michael was capable of caring for her for at least a few days. Michael sighs and runs a hand over his face. At the very least he supposes this will be a fair test of whether or not he can live with Gavin for an extended period of time. They do say pets are just like their people after all. Or is it people are just like their pets . . . Whatever, same thing.

Michael crouches down until he’s eye level with the little animal, who proceeds to yawn in his face. He frowns, “You don’t even have a collar, how the hell am I supposed to look after you if I don’t even know your name.” The cat yawns again, much to Michael’s chagrin, and moves to arch its back and stretch, paws kneading the mattress. As it moves, Michael spots a piece of notebook paper that had been hidden under its body, and quickly snatches it up.

“Her name is Egg Bodge Breakfast,” he reads aloud, “Egg for short. I put enough food in her dish for the weekend, and cleaned the catbox in the bathroom before I left. Just make sure she has water every day please. Thanks, Michael!” He flips the paper over, “There’s not even a fucking signature on here. Geeze.” The cat bats at the paper as he turns it, claws catching on the corner and ripping it. Michael glares at her, “Egg, huh? Egg, do you know your owner is a fucking weirdo? No wonder you don’t have a collar, printing that mouthful of a nonsense name on a tag would be impossible.” She swipes at the note again and Michael puts it back on the bed for her. Hopefully there’s no harm in cats eating paper, because she sets about chewing on it the second it hits the mattress.

He devours his quickly cooling Hot Pocket while he watches her, wondering if her care instructions are really as simple as Gavin had made them out to be. What most people praise about cats is their tendency to be low maintenance, but as Gavin himself is the furthest thing from it, Michael suspects that his cat will be fairly similar.

His hypothesis isn’t far off, because the next time he looks up the note is in a hundred different shreds and pieces and spread across the bed like a party-popper gone wild. “Fantastic,” Michael groans. “You have his destructive habits too.” Egg lets out a pleased meow.

Cleaning up the mess proves to be more difficult than it reasonably should be, as every time Michael tries to throw a piece of the paper into the trash Egg either swats it right back down onto the bed or catches it in her mouth and eats it before Michael can stop her. After the twentieth or so time it happens, Michael has to put her in the bathroom and close the door just so he can finish sometime in the next century.

As soon as he’s done he shuts the door to Gavin’s room to prevent both himself and Egg from snooping around in there. Egg loudly protests this banishment once Michael lets her out of the bathroom, but Michael ignores her. And as cats do, she gets over it in a matter of minutes and instead turns her attention to winding around his ankles while he unpacks the sparse contents of his duffle and trying to trip him every time he moves, once again reminding him implicitly of Gavin. “You know,” Michael says when she lets out a plaintive mew for attention, “I thought cats were supposed to be self sufficient.” Egg purrs. “You’re as clingy as he is.”

With his things unpacked (which consists of nothing more than a few sets of clothes, toiletries, and the typical collection of 21st century technology modern man can’t live without), he wanders back into the living room. There’s a low coffee table positioned between the sofas and the television, and Michael grimaces as he spots a collection of three remote controls upon it. When they’re your own, remote controls are so easily navigated that it can be done without looking most of the time. However when they belong to someone else, they might as well be fucking space technology. Michael doesn’t even have to look at them any closer to know that trying to use them will just dissolve into hopeless and screaming frustration. Except now that he’s eaten and unpacked, there’s not much else to do. It’s not as though his Xbox could have fit in his duffle, it’s in the moving van that won’t be arriving till later in the week.

Eyeing the remotes warily, he sits on the couch facing the television. A groan escapes him as he notices that none of them have logos on them to tell him which one goes to which device, and besides that they’re all almost entirely identical. As closer, he can see that the buttons are almost all arranged in a similar format, so he can’t even figure out which one is for the Blu-ray player and which is for the TV. There’s not even a discernable play or scene skip button on any of them.

He’s so busy glaring at the remotes that he nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone goes off, his ringtone echoing through the empty apartment. Michael fumbles to pull it out of his pocket and answer, taking a moment to smile as he sees the name on the screen. “Sup, loser?” he says by way of a greeting.

Gavin chuckles in his ear, “That’s not very professional, Michael.”

“You know what else isn’t professional? Leaving a dude who’s new to town alone in your apartment with only your friggen cat for company. Rude.” There’s no real bitterness in his tone, and he knows Gavin recognizes this by the overly dramatic sigh he receives in return. Michael leans back into the sofa, getting comfortable for the rant that is sure to follow.

“I’d be there if I could, but with Jack sick and everyone else having personal lives, Burnie’s words by the way, I’m first on the list as a replacement. I tried to tell him, I really did, but he insisted you’d be fine on your own.” Gavin snorts.

“Excuse me,” Michael frowns, “Are you implying I’m not capable of taking care of myself? You? The guy who flooded our fucking house?”

“That was in a videogame.”

“As was you tripping, and being an idiot, and not knowing how to survive until I told you every little obvious thing, and oh my god guess what that all was pretty true to life!”

There’s no immediate reply, and for a moment Michael fears he’s gone too far with his teasing, but the silence is quickly broken by a soft, almost affectionate huff on Gavin’s end. “Well, it’s a good thing I’ve got you now then.”

Michael is infinitely grateful that facial expressions can’t be seen over telephone calls, and that there’s no way Gavin will know of the fierce flush that fills his cheeks. “Well I’m definitely more capable than your cat,” he says a little too hastily, desperate not to allow any awkward, telling pauses fall into the conversation.

“Egg’s a big baby,” Gavin gushes, “Just give her lots of pets and she’ll behave.”

“Mergh, that’s more effort than I want to commit to. Speaking of,” Michael picks up the cluster of remote controls and moves them from the table to his lap, “tell me how the fuck to work your space T.V.”

Gavin laughs, “It’s just a normal T.V.”

“It’s got three remotes!”

“The black one is for the Blu-ray.”

“ . . . Gavin,” Michael says tersely, “They’re _all_ black.”

It takes awhile. And to Michael’s annoyance awhile means nearly an hour, but he finally gets the T.V. on and a movie streaming on Netflix. The fact that he doesn’t hang up once he’s settled down on the couch, stretched out across the cushions with his head on one of the arm rests, the phone resting on his stomach with the speaker turned on, is besides the point. “I’m watching _The Matrix_ ,” he tells Gavin, “It was queued up on your account. Fucking awful film, by the way.”

Gavin makes an accosted sound on the other side of the line, “What?! It is not! I love that movie!”

“You also had _Austin Power: Goldmember_ on there. Dude, you have terrible tastes. Absolutely the worst.”

“. . . Fine. What kind of movies do you like then?”

“Less shitty ones,” Michael smirks. The T.V. is just background noise by now, his attention more so on his phone than the screen. “But I’d already guessed you were fond of _The Matrix_. You referenced it one of the first times we talked.” His breath hitches a bit as he finishes the sentence, stumbling over the subtle mention of _Wires_. Something inside him still gives a painful twinge whenever he thinks or speaks of the game. In a way, it’s like talking about a dream after you’ve already been awake for awhile.

Or in Michael’s case, a nightmare. And bringing it up leaves his heart rabbit-racing in his chest, running from the very memory of it with the copper smell of blood in his nose.

Gavin’s voice makes its way back to him before he can let his thoughts sink too far, light and unbothered by the mention of the game. “I did, didn’t I. You know, we should play some real games together when I get back, faff about in Minecraft or something. It’ll be top.”

“As always, your vocabulary is the highlight of my life,” Michael smiles.

The unwavering calm of Gavin’s words is more soothing to him than Michael will ever care to admit. The sound of them falls across him like a blanket, warm and comfortable so that he feels as if he’ll never regain the desire to move again. They carry on talking over the dull background noise of the movie still playing long into the night, and Michael isn’t sure who falls asleep first. Although he can say for certain that Gavin is definitely the louder snorer between them.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Michael spends most of the rest of the weekend sleeping, desperately trying to adjust to the slight time difference so that he’ll be able to be awake and alert for his first day of work on Monday. And too his irritation, Egg Bodge Breakfast seems to be of a like mind, and has no qualms about sharing his bed with him no matter how many times he throws her out. By the time Monday morning finally rolls around, he’s given up trying and just lets her snuggle under the covers with him. Being a normally heavy sleeper, it’s a god damn miracle that he gets up when his alarm goes off, and it’s only through immense power of will that he doesn’t immediately hit the snooze. That and the fact that he knows Geoff will gut him if he’s late for his first day of work. He does however take a minute or two to lay blearily in bed, half on and half off the mattress in the ongoing struggle to actually get the fuck up.

He’s seconds away from drifting off again when he hears the distant click of the front door, and his eyes snap open.

“Ollie ollie oxen free! Anyone home?”

Michael’s on his feet before the door even closes, tripping over his sheets as he dashes out into the hall to see the sorely missed sight for himself.

Despite the haggard air about him, and the clear exhaustion in his eyes, Gavin still grins from ear to ear when Michael barrels into the room and skids to a halt a scant couple of feet in from him. “Excited to see me?”

“No. More like excited to see the usually immaculate Gavin Free looking like a friggen bum.” Michael reaches up before he can stop himself, running a hand through Gavin’s disorderly hair. “Dude, you look like shit.”

Gavin blinks as Michael drops the hand as quickly as he had lifted it, the full and oddly intimate motion taking no more than a second to complete. “Caught an earlier flight than the rest of the guys, so yeah, I probably do,” he explains. “They’re not coming home till later, and I thought I should be here. For your first day and all.”

Michael purses his lips, “I thought I told you I’m a perfectly functional human being who can do things on my own.”

Rolling his eyes, Gavin says, “Stop puffing yourself up, you weird little idiot. I’m not implying you’re incompetent, I’m offering a hand. No matter how much you play videogames, suddenly having to play them and have a few hundred thousand eyes on you is intimidating. You’re going to biff about for awhile, and I’m going to cover your asshole when Geoff makes fun of you.” Michael opens his mouth to protest, and Gavin cuts him off with a finger pointed back towards the hallway. “Go shower and get ready. I’ll get breakfast.”

It’s a bit shocking, Michael thinks as he trudges towards the bathroom as instructed, that Gavin is significantly more put together in real life than he was in _Wires_. Although if the clattering and screeching from the kitchen that follows that thought is anything to go by, that only applies to his job. Either way, Michael’s more than okay with that. Every difference that he finds between Gavin and his character in _Wires_ is another, easier breath he can draw where it doesn’t stir his heart to rattle with guilt and dread.

And now that Gavin is here, he can continue to do that, continue to prove to himself that the line between hurting someone in a videogame and hurting them I real life isn’t quite as fine as he fears it is.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Contrary to Gavin’s concerns, Michael’s first day actually goes quite well. Setting up his desk and filming a few test Let’s Plays with the rest of the crew at Geoff’s request is simple, and Michael navigates his way through an old Minecraft set up without a hitch. On top of that, it’s unexpectedly fun. His own worries had mostly been that he would learn that the interactions between the Achievement Hunter members were forced, but everyone seems to genuinely enjoy each other’s company. Ray even takes a moment to comment on how great it is that Michael immediately fits right in.

“Ryan was a quiet fucking goon for weeks after he first joined,” Ray says, spinning in his squeaky chair and holding his controller over his head as he walks his player character through a grove of trees. “That’s why people used to get him mixed up with Jack so much. And now he’s, ya’know, a psychopath.”

“One of these days you’re going to end up in the hole,” Geoff laughs. “Ryan will stop stewing in silence over your sarcastic remarks and just flat out murder your ass.”

“Soon,” Ryan whispers into his mic, and the rest of them minus Ray howl with laughter. The grimace Ray offers instead only furthers their giggles.

“Sometimes, by which I mean all the time, I’m legitimately scared of you,” Ray says.

Gavin scootches his chair across the space between their desks to elbow Michael in the arm. “Hey, Hey Michael. When the walls come down, let’s win this.”

Michael grins, “That’ll be a little difficult seeing as you tend to impossibly trip over your own feet.”

“Nah, we’ve got this. We’re a team now. Team, uh . . . We should think of a team name eventually.”

“If we win, we’ll think of one. Something cool.”

“ _When_ we win,” Gavin corrects.

Unfortunately, Gavin is hardly someone whose predictions can be trusted, and as usual he finds some way to royally fuck it up. This time, his downfall is simply that he becomes far too excited, and too preoccupied with chattering away to look where he’s walking.

“It’s great to have a teammate now,” he says while he and Michael are busy punching at the ground. “When we split everyone into groups before someone always got shafted with Caleb. At least until we banned him for screen looking. Lindsay’s alright, but she’s more interested in building things than winning the Tower of Pimps. But now that you’re here, maybe I’ll be on the winning side for once!” His Creeper-skinned player bounces across Michael’s screen. “You’re great at fighting games, aren’t you Michael! And this is a die-and-lose play, so we’ve got this in the bag!”

“A body bag!” Geoff cries from across the room, and Michael only has a split second to jump back before Geoff’s player leaps from somewhere above and lands directly on top of Gavin, sword drawn. Gavin screams bloody murder and vanishes from the screen in an explosion of items.

“You stupid fuck!” Michael snaps, still too startled by it all to move as Geoff swings at him next. “Pay attention and shit like this wouldn’t happen! Oh god damn it.” Geoff’s stone sword runs him through and Michael drops his controller onto the desk with an exasperated groan. “Well, there goes that.”

Gavin whines, still staring at the pitiful respawn menu on his monitor. “It’s not my fault. Geoff’s just a better fighter than me.”

“And you were blabbering on like a fucking idiot!” Michael yells.

“Well maybe if you had actually put your sword to use-”

“Maybe if you hadn’t been so distracting!”

Gavin smirks, “Oh, if that’s the way you feel.”

And then Michael launches himself out of his chair. An uproar of laughter sounds from the rest of the team as he grabs Gavin by the shoulders and sends them both crashing into the ground. Gavin shrieks, the sound bordering more on a repressed giggle fit than actual terror. Michael’s fingers are tangled in the collar of his shirt now, and when Gavin wheezes out a laugh his only reply is a sharp scowl. “Is this a Rage Quit now?” Gavin hiccups.

“It’s a something,” Ray says behind them. “Something that Tumblr would shit themselves over.”

Michael ignores the both of them. “Why the hell are you even more of a dumb fuck in video games?! Huh?! If you didn’t spend all your time faffing about and actually tried to play seriously, we could have won!” Gavin grins at Michael’s use of his own vocabulary. “And stop that smiling! This isn’t fucking funny!”

“This might finally be the Let’s Play in which Gavin dies,” Geoff snickers into his mic. “What a great introduction for our newest member.”

Almost immediately, every molecule in Michael’s body goes cold, freezing and stilling until he’s staring down at Gavin with wide eyes. No, he wasn’t going to . . . He was just playing, right? And Geoff was just joking. Yet . . . Yet here he is, red faced with anger, his hands fisted so tight into the front of Gavin’s shirt that his knuckles are white, his teeth gritted behind every bitten out word. This was how it started back then too, wasn’t it. Teasing and playful hitting and mild anger that faded to amusement over time before everything fell apart.

So then what’s to say history isn’t meant to repeat itself? If he keeps this up, who’s to say he won’t repeat his actions? Whose to say he won’t loose a little too much of his temper and really lash out again? Whose to say he’ll be able to stop himself from dealing the same blows all over again? And this time, there won’t be a fix for that, a forgiveness in the form of an unexpected meeting in an out of the way game shop.

Michael releases Gavin as though he’s been burned, scrambling to his feet with a muttered apology on his lips.

Gavin blinks, not moving from his position on the floor. “What are you sorry for?”

Of course he doesn’t understand. How could he?

It wasn’t Gavin who had withdrawn the disk so forcefully from his computer it had cracked.

It wasn’t Gavin who smashed the game against the wall.

It wasn’t Gavin who cut his finger on the shards when he picked them up off the carpet.

It wasn’t Gavin who had stared at the crimson streaks it left on his hands and felt bile rise in his throat.

It wasn’t Gavin who consciously, willingly killed Michael. It was the other way around.

And every doubt in his veins, every fear, is entirely Michael’s to bear alone.

“S’nothing,” Michael says, sitting down at his desk again, eyes carefully averted. “Just got a bit carried away, I guess.

Gavin raises a skeptical eyebrow, but doesn’t pry any further. There’s something in his expression though, some deep flicker of doubt in his gaze that makes Michael’s stomach churn. He wonders what Gavin must be thinking of him, how his thoughts about the brash and loud-mouthed NPC have changed with each passing hour he’s spent in Michael’s company. It wouldn’t take much, Michael knows, for whatever opinions he had during _Wires_ to change. It’s all too easy to form assumptions about someone before you actually meet them, and even easier for those assumptions to fall apart.

Although, maybe that’s for the better. The more Gavin finds himself disenchanted with Michael, the easier it will be for Michael to put some distance between them. That’s what’s best, isn’t it? The further Gavin is from him, both physically and emotionally, the harder it will be for Michael to hurt him. As it stands, Michael can already feel a rift forming. For Gavin Free, the line between game and reality is clear, and has been since they bumped into each other at the game store. He’s capable of separating the two, putting his words and actions of then and now into the categories they belong in. The events of Wires are just that, events of a videogame. There’s no crossing over in Gavin’s mind, no blurring of boundaries to leave his mind reeling and his chest tight with dread.

_“The game is going to end at some point, Gavin. No amount of caring will change that, and if you think it will you’re a fucking moron.”_

The fact that the words he typed then are still pertinent now makes Michael’s stomach twist. Except this time, Michael’s the one stuck caring when he shouldn’t, trapped in a game that hasn’t quite ended despite the shattered state of its disk.

And perhaps that’s the problem. Michael keeps trying to treat this all as though they’re going to be able to keep up the pretense of friendship and . . . And whatever else they had in Wires. Which is stupid as shit, he realizes the more he thinks about it. Just because he’s capable of wielding the Master Sword in a game hardly makes him capable of doing so in real life, so why should that messed-up logic apply to his interactions with Gavin? The entire reason, or most of it at least, that he’s so terrified of hurting Gavin is because he’s been clinging to the feelings he built for him in _Wires_.

So . . . So maybe he should let them go.

At least maybe then, Gavin will be safe.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

There are many things in the world that are easier said than done; riding a jet ski, changing a diaper, eating an entire turkey, etc. And it’s just Michael’s good luck that distancing himself from Gavin seems to be somewhere on that list. Actually, it might as well be at the top of the list for all the progress Michael makes within the first week (AKA, none). He tries, he really does. He goes out to lunch with Barbara and Lindsay, stays late at the office editing, and goes out for drinks at night with other various coworkers, all of which are activities he makes sure Gavin is absent from. Despite this, nothing changes, because the second he gets home he remembers that his and Gavin’s lodgings are currently one and the same.

Complaining doesn’t even once cross his mind though, how can it when he’s too busy being flustered by Gavin’s smiles and laughs and casual touches and . . . And fuck, he is so in over his head. It’s not just the fact that he literally can’t escape Gavin’s presence for very long, it’s that Michael’s entire being seems to protest at the very idea. Anything other than the vague attempts he’s already made send a painful jolt through him at the very thought. The idea of bluntly or even forcefully pushing Gavin away makes him feel ill.

Besides that, Michael finds that his strength of will tends to be significantly impaired when it comes to Gavin Free. A case in point is that even when Michael purposely gets up earlier in order to complete his morning routines while staying well out of Gavin’s way he manages to attract enough attention to himself to wake Gavin despite. In this instance, the coffee pot won’t turn on, and with the ungodly time of the morning jeering him on, Michael finds his patience to be thinner than ever. So it’s only a matter of seconds until he’s tearing the thing out of the wall and screaming profanities at it.

Gavin must have woken immediately at the noise, but it takes him a good five minutes to wander out of his room to find Michael tangled in wires with the plastic socket in his hands and a rectangular hole in the wall. The moment he enters, far too sleepy and glassy-eyed to fully process the scene let alone be mad that Michael is in the process of trashing his kitchen. Michael stares at him for a long moment like a cat caught with his tongue in the butter. “I, uh . . . I’m fixing it?”

Slowly, Gavin’s dazed bemusement shifts to a raised eyebrow as he approaches the counter and hops up on it beside Michael’s mess of wires. “You do know I don’t own this place, right?” he asks while Michael continues to look flustered. “So if you minge it up, I have to pay for it.”

Michael snorts, finally figuring out how to brush off his startled embarrassment and return to the task at hand. “I used to be an electrician up until a few days ago, so I think I know what I’m doing.”

Gavin blinks, “Really? Did you get that job right out of school? What was your degree?”

A rather bitter laugh forces its way out of Michael’s mouth. “Does high school diploma count as a degree?” He’s careful to keep his gaze averted. “College and I, well, we didn’t get along. I was never a fantastic public school student either. I’m a horrible test taker, even if I know the shit I can’t remember any of it for the life of me once there’s a blank Scantron glaring at me. Plus, I was never too hot at the main four study areas either, let alone the elective arts and all that crapola. What the hell was I supposed to do at college?” He threads the wires between his fingers as he speaks, examining the plastic coatings while he braids them back together. “I went for a semester just because it was expected of me, not because I wanted to. Picked up the electrician gig and quit as soon as I could. Not much else for someone who’s terrible at everything to do in a society that insists you have to be good at something to succeed.”

“You’re good at video games,” Gavin says without hesitation. “That’s why you’re here now.”

Michael rolls his eyes, “Well now I know for sure that you haven’t watched a single one of my Rage Quits. I’m horrible at video games, Grabbin. I wasn’t hired because I’m good at them, I was hired because I’m completely god fucking awful at them and people think it’s funny when I yell.”

“But that’s the same,” Gavin argues. “You’re good at it in your own way. You still beat the games, don’t you? Sure it takes you a bit longer than, say, Ray to do it, but you beat them. You scream at them most of the way through and you beat them and people love it and that’s why Geoff put you on the team. You’re good at it in your own way.”

A flush makes it way across Michael’s cheeks and spreads to the tips of his ears. “Shut the hell up,” he mumbles. “You’re so full of shit.”

Gavin laughs. “Yeah, I guess. Not this time though.” He swings his legs a bit, bouncing his heels against the cabinets under the countertop. After a moment, he tentatively asks, “Is that why you bought it then? Because you were an electrician and the title related to that?”

Michael turns to stare at him, “Huh?”

“ _Wires_. I’m talking about _Wires_ ,” Gavin says, and it takes Michael a moment to realize that he’s not talking about the ones currently twisted up in his hands. There’s an almost nervous tinge to Gavin’s tone, as if he’s bringing up a forbidden topic although they’ve mentioned it a handful of times before. Never quite like this, though, Michael realizes. When they’ve talked about it it’s almost always been repetition of what each of them already knows. Sure, Gavin had confessed to crying when he thought Michael had glitched out, but Michael . . . Michael hasn’t shared anything yet, not a single god damn thing.

Honestly, he’d prefer to keep it that way. Broaching the topic of _Wires_ is like toeing at a land mine, testing a tripwire that could set off all the emotions and fears Michael’s been trying so hard to bottle up and burry. But Gavin’s looking at him with such interest, such cautious and clement curiosity that Michael feels compelled to reply. “Ah, sort of, I guess. We hadn’t been getting a lot of work lately at the company, so I sort of picked it up as a joke to myself like maybe I could at least do my job in a video game if I couldn’t in real life. Except there isn’t a single fucking wire in the entire gameplay. Joke was on me after all.” He shrugs and casts a swift glance at Gavin before muttering a swift, “It did have you, though.”

It takes a second for those last words to register, to fall properly from Michael’s tongue and into the air enough for Gavin to acknowledge them with a twitch of a smile. “Yeah,” he says in return. “And that’s something, isn’t it.” He slides off the counter then arms still crooked behind him to rest his palms on his surface. “I’m going to go get ready for work. Try not to demolish my entire kitchen before I get back, okay?”

Michael sticks out his tongue at Gavin’s retreating back, “Like you could fucking stop me.”

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

It’s only through Lindsay’s thoughtful whisperings to him on Thursday afternoon that Michael has any forewarning about the night to come. According to what a little red-headed bird told him, it’s tradition for the company to take the new hires out for drinks on the Thursday night of their first week and laugh when they’re forced to come in hung over and cranky the next morning. Michael more or less waves her off when she tells him. “I can handle a few drinks,” he insists while she gives him an incredulous roll of her eyes. “But thanks for the tip.”

What Michael fails to understand before he’s sitting on a bar stool with a row of a dozen shots lined up in front of him is that Rooster Teeth doesn’t do drinks. They do _drinks_. And he is massively fucked.

Somewhere behind him he hears Geoff cackling and placing bets on how many shots he’ll down before he tips into full-on drunk, and from the sounds of it none of his fellow employees think he can hold his liquor. It’s probably the curls, they tend to give off a softer air than Michael actually possesses.

He jolts a bit as a broad hand claps him on the back, and he glances up to see Burnie standing to his right. “You can’t do any worse than Gav,” he says, and Michael turns to where Gavin has his arms folded over his chest defensively. “He was down after four.”

Michael arches an eyebrow at that, “Well that’s not too hard to beat.”

Gavin huffs. “They put something in mine, I swear they did. They won’t admit it but they must have.”

“Or your twiggy-ass body-mass index means you can’t handle your alcohol for shit,” Burnie grins. “The term ‘lightweight’ was coined for a reason, you know.” He taps the first shot glass in the row and redirects his attention to Michael again, “Bottoms up, kiddo!”

Rationally, Michael knows this is a terrible idea. Having never been the most elegant drunk, there’s absolutely no way this can end well for any of the parties involved (except maybe the fans, he can see at least two camera phones pointed his way already, hello RT Life) Irrationally however, getting absolutely slam-dunk wasted sounds like the best fucking idea in the world right now. A buzzed up mind means less room to think and worry about things he wishes he could brush away entirely, and if he blacks out well then there’s a good few hours of blissful ignorance. And besides, being surrounded by most of the friggen company means that it’s next to impossible any of his past grievances will be repeated.

Drunk or otherwise, as long as he’s within the bounds of the company and his fellow employees and bosses then everything should be fine.

Gavin will be fine.

And Michael can drink until he throws up.

With that in mind, Michael begins making his way down the line of shots, tipping them back at a pace that surprises even himself. Speed aside though, it takes him approximately six shots to lose any and all functional modes of thought other than, _“Hello yes look at these drinks I like drinks”_ and _“Ahhahaha everything is suddenly hysterically funny.”_

Geoff raises his fists in triumph at Michael’s first loopy-sounding giggle halfway through shot number seven. “Fuckin’ pay up bitches!” he shrieks to the crowd of his coworkers.

Gavin is the first to fork over a twenty, letting out a dismayed groan as he does so. “Michael, I thought you’d have better stamina than that,” he whines, watching as Michael contemplates his eighth shot as though it holds all the secrets in the world. “Don’t you Jersey boys party and stuff?”

“Do I look like The Situation?” Michael mutters to the shot glass before downing it. “My idea of a party is beers and video games more so than beers and clubs.” He eyes the ninth shot, or maybe it’s the tenth, he can’t tell if he’s just lost count or if his vision is really blurring that much already. Somewhere in the background he can hear music playing, but it’s fallen to a dull and muffled thrum in his ears. The rest of the staff are starting towards the dance floor or to an open part of the bar, clapping him on the back as they go until it’s just him and Gavin left sitting on the stools with four shots left to go. “Burnie put these on his tab, right?” Michael says as he stares them down. “Shouldn’t really let them go to waste.”

He manages to knock back only one more before Gavin is sliding the other three down the bar and away from him. “I think that’s enough for you,” Gavin chides, taking one for himself and sipping at it. “You’re already peering about like a half-blind mutt, I don’t think any more of these will do you any good.”

Michael frowns at him and makes a valiant but far-too-wobbly swipe at the shot glass in Gavin’s hand. “Fuck you, you don’t know my life.”

Gavin quirks an eyebrow and dumps the rest of it into his mouth. “What was that? I can’t hear you around that slur you’ve developed.” He’s quick to drink the last two before Michael can so much as contemplate stealing them back and he grins at Michael, albeit slightly lopsided.

“You are a lightweight,” Michael remarks, a faint smile on his own lips.

Behind them one of the girls whoops in tune with the music, and they both turn to try and catch sight of who it was. By now the entire dance floor is a mess of Rooster Teeth staff, and Michael still can’t name half of them. “That’ll be Lindsay,” Gavin whispers, leaning towards Michael to be heard under the blaring music. Michael jolts a little, startled at the tickle of Gavin’s breath against his ear. “Her and Barbara will be out there all night, they always are.”

There’s something about Gavin’s tone that’s uncomfortably off. Michael tilts his head, just a fraction, aware of Gavin’s proximity and how there’s barely any air between them. “You sound a bit jealous.” Despite the fact that he says it, that he senses that sort of inflection in Gavin’s voice, Michael doesn’t quite know what he intends by bringing it up. But as rude as it is to pry, the little sting that shivers its way through his gut at the thought that Gavin is jealous of the girls, possibly has or had feelings for one, forces him to speak. “You, uh, want in on some of that or something?” Elegant, Michael chides himself. Real smooth. Good job, asshole.

Gavin snorts. “What? Lindsay or Barbara? No.” He waves a hand in front of his face as if actually offended by the very idea. “I mean I love them both dearly, as friends, but Christ, no. I just . . .” Glancing back towards the dance floor, a small, almost inaudible sigh escapes him. “It’s just a bit lonely, ya’know? They’ve got each other, Ray’s got some internet girl, Jack’s just got engaged . . . When I started here, being alone was the norm. Now I’m the odd man out.”

In all honesty, Michael is bordering on (if not already crossing the line of) being much too drunk for this discussion. His head is buzzing, his fingers feel like he’s touched an electrical socket in the last few minutes, and every inch of him is contentedly warm. He’s aware of all the warning signs that anything he may or may not say will not be recalled come sunrise, but they’re all too easy to ignore. So he does. And fuck his mouth filter too, he has to know, has to ask the niggling question that lingers in his mind after Gavin’s soft admission. “Got someone you like then?” Too bad drunk Michael appears to have the vocabulary of a fifth grader. “I mean, someone you’re interested in?”

The bloom of red that spreads across Gavin’s cheeks is so alarmingly rapid that it takes Michael’s breath away. “Er, something like that,” Gavin chokes out, staring very pointedly at where his hands are fisted into the hem of his shirt. “I, uh . . . I don’t really know if it’s going to work out yet though, so I don’t want to get ahead of myself and umm . . . What about you?” The change in conversational direction is so hasty that it gives Michael whiplash.

He blinks for a long moment, mulling the question over in his mind. “I . . . C-ceramic rabbit,” he stutters out. Wow, he’s drunker than he thought.

“What?” Gavin looks even more confused than Michael feels.

It takes him a second to connect the dots, follow that odd utterance to the train of thought it must have come from and form a more coherent reply. “When I was little, I got this little ceramic rabbit for my birthday one year from my grandmother.” He continues on despite Gavin’s befuddled stare, trying not to stumble his words too much over his alcohol impaired tongue. “Stupid present for a boy, right? But god damn I loved that thing. I was like five, okay? And it was so fragile it was cool to be allowed to have it. I wasn’t even allowed to touch any of the glass cups or plates in the house, but this? I was allowed to have this stupid bunny.” He fiddles with one of the empty shot glasses while he talks, careful to avert his gaze from Gavin’s. “And then one day I brought it to school for show and tell. Mistake, of course. The other boys made fun of me. And I got so mad that I . . I broke it.” His hand clenches unconsciously around the shot glass. “I smashed it in my fist like it was a fucking egg, just because I was upset. I regretted it, but that didn’t change what I’d already done, or what I realized I was capable of doing because of it. I destroyed that stupid rabbit, there was nothing left but broken little bits.” He draws off, swallowing hard, “I . . . I did the same thing to _Wires_ , too. Because I was mad. And god, Gavin, I’m so fucking scared I’m going to end up doing something worse one of these days. So I don’t . . . I don’t have time to go around liking people like that, let alone the right.” When he finishes, Michael realizes he’s slowly been sinking down against the bar, his head now all but resting against the cool wood. He lets it thunk down, taking slight relief in how blissfully chilled it feels against his too-hot skin. “Sorry, that probably doesn’t make any sense, does it.”

When Michael looks up again, unfocused and wavering, Gavin’s eyebrows are furrowed together. For a heartbeat Michael fears he won’t say anything, will just brush over the topic or worse, walk away. Hell, if Gavin did that Michael wouldn’t even protest. He deserves it. “Michael,” Gavin says finally, the name like a rush of fresh air to Michael’s ears with how calm and gentle it sounds. “Destroying an object and destroying a . . . A person . . . Those are entirely different. Everyone does things like that. I do. I threw my copy of the game in the toilet for Christ’s sake. You don’t have to be so hard on yourself.”

Michael mumbles something incoherent against the bar, and even he doesn’t know what the crap he just said. He lifts his chin a bit, enough so that he can properly pronounce his words, or at least try to.

“I do, though,” he murmurs. “I do. Because when I crushed that disk I . . .” He falls short as he feels Gavin’s hand come to rest on his head, fingers running through his curls.

“You didn’t,” Gavin says. “I’m right here, remember?”

“And what if one day you’re not? And what if it’s because of me?”

“Mmmm,” Gavin hums, “You can worry all you want, I suppose, but in the end it’s as simple as this.” Michael’s eyes are closed now, the beat of the music and the soft lull of Gavin’s voice rapidly fading into dull nothingness. “I’m not going to leave you, not ever again, because I . . .”

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Michael doesn’t wake up until two in the afternoon, greeted by one of the most horrendous headaches he’s ever had in his life. “Holy shit what the fuck did Burnie put in those shots?!” he groans into his pillow, willing the world to stop spinning so that he can get out of bed and go throw up in a proper receptacle. Every nerve in his body screams at him as he crawls out from under the covers, and towards the bathroom.

Once he can properly see the floor again, courtesy of spending about a half hour hugging the toilet, he manages to stand and give himself a once over in the mirror. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on the night before, and aside from a rather oddly shaped bruise on his left shoulder he can’t find anything off. Which hopefully means he didn’t do anything supremely stupid.

“Ah, the bruise is my fault.” Michael jumps, glancing up to see Gavin standing in the doorway. “You’re heavier than you look, and I kinda missed a bit when I tried to dump you on your bed.” Taking another glance, Michael can see that the mark is shaped slightly like one of his bed posts. “Does it hurt?”

Gavin shuffles his feet, gaze downcast, and Michael offers him a smirk. “Nah, no big deal. I’m just surprised you carried me back on your own. Sorry if I was a hassle.”

“You were out cold,” Gavin shrugs, “Couldn’t get up to much trouble being unconscious and all. You, uh, do you remember anything about the party?”

There’s a pink tinge to Gavin’s face when he asks, and Michael refrains from raising an eyebrow as he struggles to recall the events of the previous night. “There were a lot of shots, Burnie is a dick, Geoff won the bet on when I’d get drunk,” he lists, “then we sat at the bar and . . . And talked, right?”

Though Gavin’s eyes widen, overall his expression shifts towards being delighted. Michael ignores the weird flutter that excites in his stomach. “Yeah! We did!”

Oh, shit. Michael’s heart drops into his gut. They must have discussed something important then. Fuckity fucking shit. What the hell did they talk about? Something about rabbits is all he can seem to recall, and he tries not to let his panic show on his face. His attention returns to Gavin as he realizes the other man hadn’t so much as paused for breath in continuing what he wanted to say.

“So, I was thinking maybe we could, um, do something tonight? Maybe?”

Michael starts. What the fuck? Why would Gavin ask something like that so nervously? What the hell did he say to the guy last night to make him act like that? Internally, Michael curses his tendency to fail at keeping his mouth shut when he’s had a drink too many. Or, wait . . . What if it wasn’t something he said to scare Gavin like this . . . But something he did.

Quickly he gives Gavin a once-over with his eyes, looking for any signs of injuries that could have been dealt by his hand. God, if he hurt Gavin . . . If he did anything so terrible to him he . . . Except there isn’t anything, not a mole or hair out of place. Trying not to let Gavin see his stifled down alarm, he looks up again with a smile. “Sure dude, that sounds great.”

Gavin’s face lights up twice as bright. “Oh! Good! I thought maybe you’d be . . . That’s good! Great! Dinner then? I know a great place within walking distance, since I can’t drive and stuff. I hope that’s okay. You like Italian food, right?”

Michael huffs out a laugh, “Yeah, yeah.” He makes a shooing motion with his hand. “Just give me awhile, kay? I’m gross and hungover and in no state to be out in public.”

“O-okay. I’ll just go call and make a reservation then. Shower or whatever, I won’t bother you.”

Gavin exits the scene with the same suddenness with which he’d arrived, leaving Michael to gasp out a breath in his wake. He shuts the door, careful to listen for Gavin talking on the phone before he sinks to his knees on the tile and fists his hands in his hair.

If it wasn’t something he did to make Gavin so skittish, then it must have been something he said.

“God damn it,” Michael snaps to himself, low enough that his voice doesn’t echo. “God fucking damn it.”

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Though they’d lived together in _Wires_ , sporting a sprawling property of a few hundred thousand pixels, Michael and Gavin actually never ate a meal together. It was an option in the game, what with the inaccessible restaurants in the equally inaccessible main street, but it wasn’t a required part of gameplay. Besides that, they’d consistently spent more time making a mess of their kitchen than using it for its intended purpose. And since Michael’s arrival at Rooster Teeth, they haven’t had time for anything other than Hot Pockets and fast food, neither of which really involves sitting down at a table together.

So it’s after four popped pain pills and an absurdly long shower that Michael shifts his focus from the issue of what went down last night to what will go down tonight. “I don’t, like, need a tie or anything dumb like that, right?” he calls into the hall while he pulls on a t-shirt. God, he doesn’t even know if he brought a tie, they’re probably all in the boxes that haven’t yet arrived.

“Nope!” Gavin yells back. “Casual is fine.”

“Cool.”

As much as he would like Gavin to remind him of the events of the night before, to be quite honest he’s terrified of finding out. Besides that, it’s pretty likely that he’s freaking out over nothing. Again. There could be any number of reasons for Gavin’s sudden case of the jitters, and they’re probably not any of Michael’s business. So if Gavin wants to go out and have dinner or whatever the fuck, he should just sit back and stop worrying about his own problems for awhile and focus on being in the presence of company he enjoys more than he’d like to admit. With all the work he’s been swamped with since arriving they haven’t really gotten a chance to be by themselves. Or at least more or less. The apartment situation is still a little awkward in Michael’s opinion, each of them tiptoeing around each other and trying to stay out of the way. Dinner will be good for them, he decides. It’ll give them some time to just be together and forget about stuff for awhile.

Forget about work.

Forget about whatever the fuck happened last night.

Forget about _Wires_.

Michael runs a hand over a crease in his shirt as he makes his way out into the living room. “Ready to go whenever you are. This place isn’t super far, right? Because you should know I’m lazy as fuck.”

“Not too far,” Gavin laughs. “You should probably put on a coat though, might get chilly out after the sun sets.” He’s already out the door while Michael scrambles to tug his coat off the hook near the door and pull it on. “No need to rush though, reservation time is a ways away.”

Michael locks the door behind him. “So what kind of place needs a reservation but not a tie?”

“A popular one.”

Something about the atmosphere seems off to Michael as they leave the apartment. Gavin chatters on the whole way there, his hands as animated as his words. He walks a step or two closer than usual, something which Michael notices immediately but doesn’t comment on. It’s not uncomfortable, it’s just different, and Michael can’t place why. What little air lingers in the closing spaces between them as they make their way down the sidewalk feels supercharged, electric so much so that is leaves Michael stunned to silence, too breathless to speak. Gavin either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind, as his ever present smile doesn’t falter in the slightest.

It’s the first time he really and truly notices the differences between real life and Wires. Gavin’s motions and expressions and voice are all things he was capable of imagining with rather startling accuracy. But whatever is in the air now, whatever is sparking up the lessening distance between them, that isn’t something he could have conceived mentally, let alone in game. Every pace towards the restaurant makes him feel even more hyperaware; aware of the way they step in synch, aware of the exact motion with which Gavin allows his words to roll off his tongue, aware of the gentle whip of wind that ruffles Gavin’s hair, aware of the stuttering of his own heart whenever Gavin directs yet another grin at him, as if today Michael was blessed with being the sun at the center of his orbit.

As Gavin promises, the restaurant isn’t too classy, thought it is quite crowded. Michael suspects that if reservations hadn’t been made they might not have gotten a table even for just two people. He can’t pronounce the name of the joint, which Gavin chides him on because he’s “From New Jersey, that’s basically like Italian-American central!” There’s a bar that takes up the entire middle section of the building, populated by businessmen and women alike. The tables for the most part seem to be occupied by two very different groups, big family parties and young couples. So more or less the typical restaurant setting, minus the usual abundance of old people. Michael suspects that with all the noise wouldn’t make for a pleasant dining experience for anyone over the age of fifty.

Their server sets them up at a little round table in a back corner, tucked away in its own little pocket of hush and what could only be described as “mood lighting.” Michael eyes the purposefully dim bulb when he sits down, wondering whether he should be concerned about the cleanliness of the seats with such a weird little back-and-away spot.

“It’s a pretty top little place,” Gavin insists when he notices Michael’s suspicion. “Lindsay recommended it to me. This is her and Barbara’s favorite table, too.”

Michael turns his gaze to the table itself, “That doesn’t reassure me much at all. With how out of the way it is they probably made out right on top of the table. As did a good hundred other couples, I’d bet.”

Gavin flushes slightly and ducks his head behind the open menu with a nervous laugh. “Ah, probably. But it’s sanitary, I promise.”

“You’re lucky I trust you,” Michael snorts, an edge of a smile on his face as he flips open his menu as well.

Going out to dinner with Gavin is, well, nice. They spend most of the meal talking rather than eating, Gavin attempting to sneakily catapult peas at Michael with his spoon while Michael blocks them without even looking. The wine isn’t overly expensive, the food neither cold nor horrible, and the company as enjoyable as it ever was. They finish off a large bottle between them, laughing while they swirl the alcohol around in their glasses and pretend to smell its bouquet and sip at it like they’re too good for such lowly things as a cheap drink. Michael barely even notices the more subtle things of the night, like the way Gavin’s eyes almost never leave his, how the topic of conversation never falls into idle small talk, or how by the time the waiter brings around the check their legs are so tangled together underneath the table from a gentle kicking match that Michael can no longer discern who’s feet are whose without lengthy examination. And perhaps that all has to do with the fact that everything, every exchange in conversation and touch and second of it all feels so god damn fucking right. So normal that it’s as easy as sinking beneath water. All he has to do is relax and lean back and he’s immersed into depths where the world consists of only himself and Gavin Free.

Just like _Wires_.

Gavin insists on paying, which Michael allows because having not received his first official paycheck yet means he doesn’t have much room for protest. “Told you it’d be nippy out when we headed back,” Gavin says when they step outside into the first chilled gasp of wind, his chin huddled down into the collar of his coat.

Michael rolls his eyes, “First of all, don’t ever say the word ‘Nippy’ ever again. Second, as you’ve repeatedly reminded me, I’m from the east coast. This little shit of cold is nothing, okay. Nothing. In fact.” He tugs off his coat and ties it around his waist like he tripped and fell out of the nineties. “It’s so warm right now that I don’t even need a coat. Ha!”

“Now you’re just being an ornery little sod,” Gavin huffs, beginning to lead the way back towards the apartment. Michael hurries to catch up with him, and Gavin gives him a once over when he trots up to his side. “I can see the goose pimples on your arms, you cheek. You’re not fooling me.”

“I’ll make it all the way back without so much as a shiver,” Michael smirks. “Just you wait.”

Gavin narrows his eyes, “Is that some sort of challenge? Because you should know I’m awfully fond of bets.”

Michael chuckles, “Oh, I know. I’ve seen quite a few RT Life segments based on your stupid dares. You gonna pay me?”

“A hundred if you don’t shiver, chatter your teeth, or turn blue before we get back,” Gavin offers. “But only if I’m allowed interference.”

“What sort of interference?”

“This sort.”

Michael barely manages to avoid falling flat on his face as Gavin immediately shoves a leg into his path and sends Michael stumbling forward. “Aw fuck!” Michael snaps. “You cheat!”

“A hundred buys me some foul play!” Gavin crows, already skipping on ahead.

No more further encouragement is need for Michael to follow, picking up his pace until they’re shoulder to shoulder again, a glint in his eyes as he growls, “Fine. Challenge accepted motherfucker.”

For someone who for all intents and purposes appears to be a lanky weirdo, Gavin has a surprising amount of largely untapped strength behind his movements. He wastes no time in swiping a foot behind Michael and knocking it against his heels to make him skip a step and falter. His other hand comes up to shove at Michael’s shoulder a heartbeat later, and it’s only through instinctively readjusting his position to place his un-hit foot behind him a ways that prevents Michael from falling flat on his ass. He parries a jab to the side, and then Gavin’s off again, skipping ahead and waiting for Michael to catch up.

Once he does so, Michael instantly finds himself in another tight spot when Gavin catches the edge of the coat tied around his hips and uses it as leverage to whiplash Michael backwards. “Jesus, you’re fast,” Michael gasps as he once more barely saves himself from an intimate meeting with the ground.

“Not as Slow Mo as I pretend to be, huh?” Gavin laughs. He grabs onto the collar of Michael’s t-shirt and tips him backwards until his back hits the wall of a brick building bordering the sidewalk.

“That was the worst pun ever,” Michael groans.

“Ah, you loved it.”

Gavin has him effectively pinned, one hand tangled into the front of Michael’s shirt and the other braced against the wall near Michael’s ear. He’s leaning so close that Michael can make out the individual flares of streetlights in his eyes. He feels like he’s missing something here, something important in the way Gavin suddenly stops talking and stares at him, something in the closing distance between them. But he doesn’t have time to pay attention to it. Not with a hundred dollars on the line.

He ducks underneath Gavin’s arm, dislodging the hand on his shirt and getting ahead by a few sidewalk squares. “Tease,” he thinks he hears Gavin whisper before he’s darting after him.

Michael takes the opportunity of surprise and sticks his leg out. The decision to do so is instantly regretted , because before he can even suck in a breath Gavin’s tripped right over the limb and landed face first on the pavement with a shriek.

Falling to his knees, Michael takes Gavin by the shoulders and sits him up, apologies spilling out of his mouth. “Oh shit, oh god, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Fuck, fuck, fuck, are you okay? Did you break anything? It looked like you landed on your nose. Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Gavin.”

It takes a moment for Gavin to raise his head, one hand clutched across his face. He flashes a smile beneath parted fingers. “Just a stumble, you idiot. I’m fine.”

Michael pries back the hand to see for himself, his palms pressed against the sides of Gavin’s head so he can tilt it back and forth. “Are you sure? It doesn’t hurt anywhere? Sometimes shock will make it so you can’t feel the pain and stuff. Maybe we should go to the hospital just to make sure.”

“I’m fine!” Gavin laughs. “Really! I am!” He doesn’t bother to brush off Michael when he stands, which is good as he wobbles a bit when he does. Michael catches the faint wince that flits over Gavin’s features and turns his attention downwards to spot a trickle of blood making its way down the other man’s kneecap through a fresh tear in his jeans. Gavin follows his gaze. “Oh. Might’ve banged up my knee a little, I guess.”

“Damn it,” Michael hisses. It’s not bad, he knows that. It’s no worse than any cut or scrape or bruise a small child might get while playing. But despite that, a jolt of nausea makes its way through him. Gavin’s bleeding, Gavin’s injured, and it’s because of him.

The speed at which he retracts himself from Gavin, removes his hands and takes a step back is so awkward it’s no wonder Gavin reacts to the action with such wide, confused eyes. “What’s wrong? Are you squeamish about blood?”

“No,” Michael says stiffly. “I just . . . Fuck, I’m sorry.” Reaching for his pocket, he slips a handful of twenties out and thrusts them at Gavin. “Take it. You win the bet.”

As he turns away, Michael allows one long, sick shiver to course through his body before starting back towards the apartment with Gavin trailing behind.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

The following night Gavin pats the couch cushion next to him with a command of “Sit. Movie night,” and Michael obeys, too guilty over the square of gauze on Gavin‘s knee to refuse. “Watching _The Matrix_ the other day doesn’t really count as an official first movie night together,” Gavin continues, “since I wasn’t even actually here. So tonight we’re going to amend that.”

Michael eyes him, lips pursed into a thin line. “We’re going to watch _The Matrix_ again? Are you trying to send be to an untimely grave with death by boredom?”

Gavin rolls his eyes. “No. We only watch quality films in this apartment.”

Apparently, quality movies means _Sharknado_ , and the fact that Michael sits there and watches it anyways is far more telling than he’d like. Although his attention isn’t quite as focused on the movie than he pretends it is. He’s a bit too busy watching Gavin fidget to maintain an interest in the nonsensical plot on the screen. In contrast, Gavin’s gaze remains studiously fixed on the movie to the point where it’s almost awkward. But Gavin’s eyes are the only still thing about him. They start off with a good foot or more of space between them, a gap which shortens significantly as the film wears on. And though Gavin might give the appearance of concentration, his body language speaks volumes otherwise. Michael’s heart ratchets up a pace every time Gavin edges a little closer. He gets that it can be difficult to adjust to sharing space with someone when you formerly occupied it alone, but this is just ridiculous. Pointing it out though seems like the perfect fodder for another fight, and that’s the last thing Michael wants right now.

The fact that he’s not that bothered by it all is different matter entirely. Especially with the events of the last two nights. He’s not only managed to fuck things up not once, but possibly twice in the span of a single weekend, and that fact hasn’t seemed to have raised his defenses in the slightest. Just like how he eventually gave in to Gavin in _Wires_ , he continues to do so in life no matter how many futile attempts he makes to build up a wall between them.

By the time the movie draws to a close they’re sitting side by side, thighs pressed against each other and Gavin’s arm thrown over the back of the sofa, mere inches away from being draped over Michael’s shoulders. “I can’t believe that dumb bitch survived getting swallowed whole by a shark,” Michael says as the credits role. “I mean seriously, shouldn’t she have suffocated? And besides that, the shark wasn’t big enough to have swallowed one person whole, let alone two. It’s not like its stomach takes up its entire body.”

“Syfy channel physics,” Gavin says. “Don’t try and rationalize them. Especially not when the entire basis of this movie is a hurricane having enough power to lift sharks out of the ocean and fling them through the air.” His fingers are tapping out a beat against his leg as he speaks, an almost nervous movement. “I’ll have to show you some of their other shark epics next time. You ever seen _Ghost Shark_?”

“God, no. That sounds even worse.”

“You’ll love it, it’s top,” Gavin smiles.

Really, Michael should start to be concerned about the lack of personal space that’s getting lessened by the second. It goes against every frail attempt he’s made this week to distance himself. Hell, Gavin’s practically nose to nose with him now, their breath mingling together between them as their conversation slowly lulls down, the position far to reminiscent of the last few seconds before Michael gifted Gavin with a date with the sidewalk last night. From this distance, Michael notes that Gavin’s eyes aren’t quite the same shade they were in the game. Alive and real, Gavin’s eyes are a much softer green, not as vibrant but still equally as compelling to look at. They’re clearer now, not tainted by the shadows of the crowded office or the streetlamps and strobe lights that had filled the rest of their weekend. And for one stupid moment, Michael almost wants to test how much closer he can get, how much distance in the gap left between them he can cross.

All at once, every warning from every cheesy pop song Michael’s heard in his life seems to ring in his ears. Fuck. What the actual hell is he doing right now? Giving in to the instinct to lean in those last few breaths? Ignoring any semblance of common sense he has left? Putting himself into a dangerous situation where one or both of them will end up hurt?

Michael all but flies off the couch cushion as he leaps to his feet, already quite a ways away by the time his toes touch carpet again. “I . . .” he falters as he catches the pained look in Gavin’s eyes and looks away. “I better get to bed. It’s pretty late.”

“Yeah,” Gavin agrees quietly.

Michael stares at him for a heartbeat, waiting for him to say something else, call him out on his sudden and pretty unsubtle endeavors to get as far away from the situation as possible. But Gavin doesn’t, he doesn’t even try. Instead, he lowers his hand from the back of the couch and lets it fall into his lap, palm up as he examines his lifelines as if they’re the most interesting thing in the room. His posture is noticeably tenser now, his shoulders slumped like he intends to curl in on himself the second Michael leaves, jaw set tight as if caging in some admission that begs to be released.

“I didn’t . . .” Michael starts, the need to explain overwhelming in the face of Gavin’s misery. “ I don’t want . . .” _I don't want to hurt you_. The closer he is, the more difficult it becomes for him to control himself, the more their words will wound, and the harder it will be to break away from it all. Furthermore really, isn’t it so much easier to harm someone you care about than someone you don’t?

“It’s fine, I understand.” Gavin whispers. “Goodnight, Michael.”

If wishes were fishes, Michael would have an aquarium by now. Alas, with nothing else to offer, nothing else to say, he only has the water. And, god, this must be what it feels like to drown.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Gavin’s not home the next day when the moving van arrives with the rest of Michael’s stuff. He doesn’t text or call or leave a note, but Michael knows he doesn’t have the right to gripe about that after all that went down over the weekend. Thus he carries the boxes up to the apartment and into his room on his own. There’s only about a dozen of them, so it’s not like it’s some great effort to do it, but the two men driving the truck still give him pitying looks when he refuses their help. It takes a lot of self restraint not to flip them off.

Unpacking the boxes is another matter entirely. People moving for the first time really should not be allowed to pack their own shit without supervision, especially if they won’t be seeing the boxes again for a week. Not a single one of them is labeled, let alone organized, and Michael finds himself pulling books out of the same boxes as clothes. The only solution is to dump everything on the floor and sort it item by item, which rapidly proves to be the worst idea in the history.

He’s not surprised that Gavin returning home is accompanied by an amused snort from the doorway when he sees the disaster that has become Michael’s room. “What the smeg is this?”

Michael’s eyebrows furrow together while he mouths “smeg” to himself, and looks up to see Gavin leaning against the doorframe to the spare bedroom. “Unpacking,” Michael says. “Sorry it’s a mess.”

Shaking his head, Gavin huffs out a soft laugh. “Do you need any help?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, and strides across the room to take a seat on the carpet opposite Michael before any objections can be uttered.

Honestly, Michael had expected Gavin to still be upset when he returned. It’s not like they’d ended their disastrous movie weekend on a high note. Hell, Michael himself is still reeling a bit from it. But Gavin seems to have bounced back like a god damn rubber ball. If Michael didn’t know better, he’d attribute that to Gavin not caring as much as Michael thought he did. That’s not the case though, if it were Gavin would have sat beside him, not across from him, and that single act alone gives Michael an uncomfortable twinge in his gut. It’s subtle, much more so than any of the tactics Michael had tried to use to put some distance between them. At the same time, it’s not quite what Michael wanted.

Sitting across from him, carefully putting that space between them, implies Gavin has a bit more self preservation instincts than Michael previously gave him credit for. And if he’s actually using them, well . . .

Well that means he’s scared, doesn’t it? People don’t just change habits like that without reason, and Michael can’t help but wonder what it was he said or did that finally triggered Gavin to start backing up. Was it a single instance, perhaps when Michael had been too drunk to remember it? Or was it a combination of moments with last night’s uncomfortable tiff merely acting as the catalyst to knock some sense into him? Michael doesn’t really want to know. Neither answer sits well with his stomach. The look in Gavin’s eyes has changed too, become more guarded. Good, Michael thinks. The more cautious he becomes, the less he’ll want to do with Michael, and the less likely it is that Michael will lose his cool.

Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice when Gavin starts picking through the piles of stuff, sorting through them without comment. It isn’t until Michael drops a book by accident that he comes back to himself to glimpse a flash of worry in Gavin’s eyes. Gavin must feel Michael watching him, because he pauses in his work, a stack of old gameboy games in his hand. “Can I ask you something?” Gavin asks.

“Yeah dude, of course.”

“And you’ll answer me honestly?” His hands tremble slightly around the stack of games, and Michael swallows.

“Yeah.”

Gavin raises his gaze, his bottom lip pulled up between his teeth. “Do you still want to be friends?”

“Wha-” Michael gapes at him, “Why would you think I wouldn’t?”

“Last night,” Gavin looks away again. “And the one before that. And at the bar . . .” He swallows hard around that last one. “Plus, it’s kind of silly for me to assume you want to continue where we left off with _Wires_. We didn’t exactly . . . It wasn’t quite a picnic, was it.”

“No,” Michael agrees, “But life isn’t one either.” He sighs and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “As for all of the shit these past few days you just mentioned, that’s on me, okay? Don’t go around beating yourself up over that. If anyone here should want to back out, I’d have thought it would be you.”

A light, hesitant smile works its way into the corners of Gavin’s mouth. “Nah. You’re kind of stuck with me now.”

“What a terrible predicament,” Michael says sarcastically, pleased when Gavin’s smile doesn’t falter.

And this is the opening, isn’t it, the chance Michael didn’t know he needed to talk about the game. Discussing what he’d done to the disk, done to Gavin is still off the table, but the actual game itself? The hours they’d wasted on that thing? That’s safe territory. “I don’t know if you ever saw it, but I actually did an old Rage Quit with that game.”

Gavin blinks, “Really?”

“Yeah. It was one of the ones that Geoff commented on, maybe even the one that swayed him into offering me the job.” Michael shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I can, uh, show you if you want?”

The video is a piece of shit, filmed with Michael’s handheld camera rather than a capture card, but they can still make out the familiar features of the playground in Wires when Michael pulls it up on his laptop and hits play.

His hand is in the frame, the camera unsteady as he points at the screen with an exclamation of, “Look at this fucknut shithole game. There isn’t even a plot! I’ve spent hours mowing lawns, saving for a house, talking to the dumbass NPCs that populate it, and nothing. A _Teletubbies_ game would be more entertaining than this.” The camera swings around to point at Michael’s deadpan expression. “Now to show you the most aggravating glitch of the thing. It’s obviously some homemade junk, and has glitches coming out the butt hole, but none are so annoying as this.”

They watch as the Michael of the past walks out of the playground and into one of the houses. “See this? If I save and turn it off this happens.” Gavin jumps as the image of the screen seems to cave in on itself and blip out of existence, a high-pitched whine emitting from the computer’s speakers. Past Michael reaches around and switches it back on to load the game again. “And then you re-enter and you’re back in the fucking playground again. It didn’t used to do this, it was fine for about a week. Now it just shits itself every time I save. Maybe it’s a hidden plot thing, like I have to keep spawning in the playground until something happens. God knows what that is though.”

Michael pauses the video and closes his laptop again. “That was about a month before you showed up. I hadn’t played the thing in weeks because of that creepy-ass glitch, so god knows what compelled me to pick it up again.”

“Maybe I was the something that was supposed to happen,” Gavin whispers, flushing as it becomes apparent that he said it aloud. “Sorry, I-”

“It’s fine,” Michael cuts him off. “That’s a nice way to think about it. Cheesy as fuck, but nice.”

Now this is the way it should be, just two friends talking and working together. It’s a little forced, a little strained, but Michael’s sure it will become more natural over time. And that’s what he wants, isn’t it? This calm and collected interaction that gives Michael the breathing room he needs to keep himself in check. Something about Gavin twists something inside Michael, sets his emotions on an automatic high so that every flare of feeling is intensified, anger being the worst of it. That too though shall fade eventually, and despite Michael’s reassurance that they’ll remain friends, Gavin hasn’t moved to shrink the distance he’s set between them.

It’s better this way.

Too bad better isn’t always synonymous with right.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

“We need to talk.”

Those four words are the first clue Michael has that he’s about to be in deep shit. He slowly turns in his chair to face the desk to his left. Ray stares back at him with one leg crossed over his knee and his hands folded under his chin like he’s some sort of super villain facing down his nemesis. Which, now that Michael thinks about it, he very well might be. Mogar, mortal enemy to X-Ray does have a certain ring to it. Casting a swift glance over his shoulder, Michael notes that Gavin is nowhere to be found, probably still out on his lunch break with Geoff. Which means Michael is utterly cornered and defenseless. Fuck.

“Er, what about?” he asks, trying not to let a single syllable waver and give away his apprehension.

Ray shifts his eyes to where Jack is still sitting at his desk, happily humming away while editing a Fails Of The Week video. “Not here.” The worst part about it all is that it’s not Ray’s posture that scares him, or the seriousness in his gaze, or even really anything external about Ray at all. Ray’s short as fuck, Michael could take him any day. No, it’s the dangerous, almost silky curl of Ray’s tone of voice that makes the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck stand on end. Whatever the topic of discussion, Ray is out for blood.

Standing, Ray crooks a finger for Michael to follow and paces towards the open door out into the hall. He takes the stairs in slow, single steps with Michael trailing behind, and by the time they’re on the second floor Michael thinks his heart might have actually stopped because of sheer terror. Up ahead Ray stops outside a door to one of the company’s meeting rooms and pushes it open, staying in the doorway until Michael slides in as well. “Sit.” Ray points to a chair with its back to the broad whiteboard that takes up the entirety of one of the walls.

Michael does so, taking a brief moment to eye what’s written on the board as he does so. “Why does it say ‘Butts Meeting’ on there?”

Ray spares the board a glance himself. “Maybe you’ll have the privilege of knowing someday. Now don’t change the subject.”

He doesn’t pull up a chair, and instead continues to stand. If he were sitting like Michael, it would be far less intimidating. But apparently, Ray takes his lack of height into account with his intimidation tactics, placing his opponent in a lower position than himself to create the full effect of being on higher ground. In all honesty it sends a nervous shudder down Michael’s spine. Whatever they’re going to discuss, Ray means some serious fucking business.

And there’s no doubt in his mind that the topic of this little chat will be one Gavin Free.

“You’re a piece of freaking work, you know,” Ray starts, one hand resting on the table top while he leans over Michael. “I don’t know what the hell happened after the stint at the bar but whatever it was, you better fix it. Or I’ll skin you.”

Suspicions confirmed, then. Gavin is the focus of discussion and Ray is, indeed, a secret evil mastermind. There’s not even a hint of a smile to dissuade that threat.

Ray’s looking at him now, intently like he expects some kind of backlash. Michael fumbles for something to say. “I . . .” He clamps his jaw shut, suddenly irritated by the situation he’s found himself in. “It’s really none of your business, you know,” he snaps finally.

Ray arches an eyebrow, expression morphing to one that causes every fiber of Michael’s being to scream at him to flee post haste. “Oh, really?” Ray grits out between his teeth. “So tell me, where the fuck were you for the past few months, huh? Who was it who made sure that idiot ate and slept when he was dicking around for hours on end with some ghetto-glitch NPC? Who was it that picked him up off the floor when he spent the night crying over your sorry NPC ass? Tell me,” he grabs onto the front of Michael’s jacket with such force that Michael jolts foreword out of his chair, “Tell me who it was who was there this whole god damn time while you were far away and on the other side of those shitty wires?”

Michael’s breath hitches painfully in his lungs, his eyes wide as he looks up into the pure fury reflected behind Ray’s glasses. “He doesn’t need me,” he says, forcing his voice not to crack. “He doesn’t need someone as awful and fucked up as me, okay? I’m no good. If Gavin knows what’s good for him, he’d just understand that and-”

“And what?” Ray growls. “Leave? Would you have asked the same of him in that stupid game? What’s the difference now, huh? What the hell changed to make you think he’s not worth your fucking time?”

“ _I’m_ not worth _his_ time!” Michael shoves at Ray, who stumbles back and releases his grip. “Everything’s changed! I fucking destroyed that disk, you stupid fucking asshole! I broke it into irreparable pieces! That’s something you sure as hell weren’t there for! And if you give a single flying fuck about Gavin you’ll let me break away from him! I don’t want to do the same thing to him, okay!”

Michael expects there to some semblance of shock in Ray’s eyes when he slams him into the wall, some sort of startled disgust or concern, but the dark frustration in Ray’s gaze doesn’t so much as tremble. “You’re even more of a dumbass than he is,” Ray says lowly. “Do you think that kids who play _Battlefield_ or _Call of Duty_ or _Halo_ or any other game with firearms and killing are more likely to shoot up their school?”

“No, but-”

“So why should you be any different? No matter how much you or Gavin treated what you thought was an NPC like a living breathing person that didn’t change that it was a fucking game. Feel guilty about it all you god damn want, but Jesus Christ, don’t take it out on Gav.” Ray raises a hand and pries Michael off of him one finger at a time. “I’m not kidding. You’re fucking this up, and if he cries I’m going to murder you in your sleep. And you know what, it won’t be due to any violent urges put in my brain by a friggen video game. It’ll be because you’re the biggest asswipe in the world and you’ll have earned it.” He jabs a finger into Michael’s chest. “You’re damn right you don’t deserve him, but that doesn’t mean you can’t change that. Stop being a dickweed and digging your hole deeper and try becoming someone who isn’t afraid to be at his side.”

Michael’s already sinking to the floor when Ray makes his way out and slams the door behind him so hard that the whiteboard embezzled with “Butts Meeting” vibrates behind him. The spot where Ray dug his finger into Michael’s ribs aches, and he knows if he looks he’ll find a faint bruise already blooming on his skin. After a heartbeat, his hands find his hair, fisting into the curls in order to keep his fingers from shaking. Ray’s right, Michael knows that, knows it like he knows he’s just now remembering how to breathe. But isn’t it a bit too late? He’s already managed to hurt Gavin once, and when he inhales a quivering gulp of air he swears he can taste the iron tang of blood in the back of his throat. It’s too late to claw his way out of the pit he’s dug, too late to try and find purchase on the steep and muddy walls because he’ll just slide back down, just end up in the bottom again clutching the broken shards of his _Wires_ disk against crimson stained palms, all the while knowing that this time the blood is real.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

It’s exactly two weeks after his arrival at Rooster Teeth that Geoff suggests that Michael do a Rage Quit with Gavin. “You guys are like peas, okay, it’ll be great. And do something scary too so that it’s funny, Gavin’s no good with shit like that.”

On a list of worst ideas ever, this one definitely takes the cake and the top spot. Too bad Gavin is far too excited about the idea for Michael to tell him no. The only comfort he has is that the gap they’ve set up between them hasn’t lessened, and he highly doubts a play through of a horror game will change that much. It’s a little easier now that Gavin seems to have taken a bit of hint. There’s never anything less than a foot and a half between them anymore, even when they’re on the sofa watching TV together. While that makes the whole world feel a hell of a lot colder to Michael, he knows it’s for the best. And Ray can go fuck himself, he’s wrong. The further Michael sinks into his pit of guilt, the further way he gets from hurting Gavin again. After all, it’s a bit hard for someone suffocating below ground to harm someone who rightly so walks above it.

In order to film the Geoff’s requested Rage Quit, Michael has Gavin stay after everyone else has left the office. It’s immensely less aggravating for the rest of the staff if he keeps his trademark yelling and screaming to after hours. Unsurprisingly, Gavin isn’t so fond of having to hang around any later than he has to, but it’s hardly the first time.

“Could be worse,” Gavin says as they get their setup ready. “Could be stuck here editing a Let’s Play until midnight instead of hanging out with my boi.” He grins in the face of the faint pinkening of Michael’s cheeks.

“Is that the weird British version of ‘My bro?’” Michael flops down in his chair and pulls his headphones on. “And if so, what exactly are the qualifications of being someone’s bro - I mean boy.”

“Boi with an I at the end,” Gavin corrects.

Michael lifts an eyebrow, “You can’t hear how someone is mentally spelling something, you fucking moron. For all you know I could have been saying it with an I.”

Tapping the tip of his nose, Gavin smiles, “But you didn’t, and you and I both know that.” He takes a seat and scootches his chair until it’s flush with the desk, hands already falling to the mouse Michael has placed him in charge of. “Right then, time to shit our pants.”

“ _You_ can shit your pants,” Michael snorts and pulls the keyboard closer to him. “I’m going to keep mine clean, thanks.”

Honestly, Michael prides himself on how well he deals with Gavin’s nonsense during the play through. Any anger he feels is almost immediately dispersed by a quick glance in Gavin’s direction, and he keeps his harsher reactions limited to words. “If you call it a torch one more time, I’m going to shove my fist up your ass,” he growls into the mic while Gavin obnoxiously flicks the flashlight on and off on the screen. “And stop making it strobe! Every time you turn it back on I expect to see him standing there!” Gavin ignores him, humming “Staying Alive” under his breath as they move the player character on between the trees. They’ve already died half a dozen times, so the initial fear factor is beginning to wear off, to Michael’s immense relief. The first couple of scares had sent Gavin into hysterical shrieks that Michael swears popped his ear drums as well as the audio levels. And this is just the first game on a list Geoff had given them to cover. Michael dreads how much worse this could get with a game that’s actually scary, instead of just a piece of Indy shit.

It is of course right as he’s having that thought that everything goes horribly wrong. Gavin turns the mouse to face to the left, and screams at the top of his lungs. He jumps, dropping the mouse and scrabbling at the empty air. Michael can’t even see what it was that spooked him, because in the next second Gavin’s flailing hands find the arm of Michael’s chair and tip them both over to crash into the carpet in a jumble of limbs and headphones. Said headphones proceed to pop out of their sockets and twist up in the mess even more, so that by the time Michael scrambles to his knees he’s so tangled up he can’t even tell which pair of headphones is attached to which wires. “You stupid fuck,” he grits out between his teeth.

“Oops?” Gavin tries sheepishly.

Later, Michael isn’t quite sure who moved first, whether it was Gavin catching his leg against the back of Michael’s knee, Michael himself trying to sit up properly only to fall and scrape the palms of his hands against the rug, or a mixture of it all. Either way, in the heartbeat it takes for those things to happen, Gavin gets it into his head that this is the perfect time for some good old fashioned roughhousing. And by that notion, technically Gavin’s moves first. Michael’s still trying to figure out how the fuck the headphones got so messed up when the world suddenly turns upside-down. He blinks up into the face of Gavin’s wide, mischievous grin, and returns it with one of his own. “Oh, you wanna go? We can go, dickie bitch.”

This is a test, a way to asses whether or not they can continue on as they have, whether Michael can once and for all discern the line between _Wires_ and the world outside it. He’s played like this with his friends and brothers a hundred times before, this shouldn’t be any different. And this time he’s aware of everything, it’s not a moment of haywire emotion that can get the better of him like with their first Let’s Play. With a grunt, he uses his superior weight to swap their positions again. To his shock he finds himself only on top for a moment, as Gavin rolls with the movement, apparently expecting it, and pins Michael to the floor again with ease.

“Try harder,” Gavin teases.

Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be. Michael sucks in a slow breath of air, every muscle in his body loosening. He closes his eyes and lays still, waiting, patiently breathing in and out until he feels the slight slackening of Gavin’s grip on his wrists. “Dumbass!” Michael whoops as he surges upwards, forcing Gavin to release him. It takes a bit of fumbling and a whole lot more rolling on the carpet than he’d like (not to mention giggling), but he eventually manages to get a hold of Gavin’s shoulders and force him face down onto the floor, his knees on either side of Gavin’s hips. “Eat carpet, numbnuts!”

Gavin struggles and whines, unable to fight back with the position he’s in. “Not fair!”

“You shouldn’t start fights with people bigger than you,” Michael laughs. “Which would be everyone.”

“I’m taller than you!”

Michael lets him up without much more fuss, offering Gavin a hand, “I meant bigger in muscle weight,” he says as Gavin takes his hand. “Not height.”

Gavin’s halfway through pulling himself to his feet when he lets out a sharp hiss of breath. “Augh, what the-” He releases Michael’s hand and falls back to the floor, cradling his wrist against his chest. “Why did that hurt?”

As soon as he says it, as soon as the word “hurt” leaves his mouth, it’s like the whole world turns mute. There’s a roaring in Michael’s ears, a sound like waves breaking on the shore that overrides everything else, makes it so that when Gavin opens his mouth again, Michael only sees his lips move, and nothing of what’s said reaches him.

He’s hurt. Gavin’s hurt.

And Michael is the cause. Again.

He covers his mouth, holding back the rise of bile in his throat.

It’s all his fault. He’s failed. And the ground is already opening up beneath him, dragging him further and further into the earth.

“I think I sprained it,” Gavin’s saying, voice barely starting to filter over the white noise in Michael’s mind. “It’s probably fine, I’ll just ask Geoff for one of those plastic and gauze splints tomorrow.” He lifts his uninjured hand to Michael, “Help me up?”

Michael stares at him, unable to process the question. “Wh . . . What?”

Gavin shakes his head, “Never mind.” He hoists himself up using the desk, injured arm hanging limply at his side. “We should probably head back, yeah? We can try to film it again tomorrow.” With his good hand, he reaches up and ruffles his fingers through Michael’s hair. “You seem out of it anyways.”

“I - I’m sorry,” Michael chokes out.

Smiling, Gavin says, “Don’t worry about it, everyone gets tired.”

Michael bites back another stammering apology. He doesn’t get it, Gavin doesn’t fucking get it. Or if he does, he doesn’t care. Michael hurt him for a second god damn time. Why the fuck is he still smiling? Maybe . . . Maybe he’s been conditioned to it, maybe he’s been around Michael long enough to think insults and injuries are just part of the packaged deal, something he has to live with without complaint. Even if that’s not true, that doesn’t change the fact that Michael’s failed.

Ray’s wrong. It’s not that he hasn’t tried to become someone deserving of being at Gavin’s side, it’s that he tried and failed. And that’s infinitely worse.

If he can’t remain close to Gavin without harming him, then perhaps he shouldn’t be close to him at all.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Of course Michael knows it was an accident. However, seeing the splint on Gavin’s wrist every day is a reminder that it’s still something that happened because of him. He was probably too rough somewhere, too forceful. Unconscious action might be a mistake, but that hardly means it’s not his fault. If he dropped a glass of milk it would be an accident, and the responsibility would still be on him.

So why should Gavin be any different? He got hurt and Michael is to blame, accident or not.

“Look,” Gavin says to him one morning, injured hand held out. The splint isn’t on it, and Michael can see the faint pressure grooves it left in his skin. “It’s not swollen anymore, see?”

Gingerly, fighting against every warning in his head, Michael takes his hand. He turns it around, examining the bruises around the bone. Gavin’s wrists are alarmingly small in comparison to his own, and he holds this one as though he would a fragile bird. “Does it still hurt?”

“Mmm, yeah. Not as much anymore though. Geoff says I should probably wear the splint for another couple of days.” Gavin rolls his shoulders and sighs. “It makes it really hard to edit and play, so we’re probably going to have to use a lot of old Let’s Plays we filmed but didn’t release until it feels a bit better.”

“That’s fine,” Michael says, “What’s most important is that it heals.” And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter what Michael wants or wishes, it never has. Since the moment Gavin’s PC had approached him on the bench, Michael’s orbit changed what it revolved around. He’s okay with that, really, he is. Knowing Gavin means enough to him that he’d rather be unhappy than see any pain in those green eyes is oddly anchoring. It’s not like he was much of anything before they met, an unhappy electrician going through the motions without any sense of purpose. And while Gavin may not have entirely given him a reason, he had certainly provided a meaning. So if being near Gavin results in hurting him, then the solution is obvious, and Michael’s been putting it off for far too long.

“Put the splint on,” he says, dropping Gavin’s hand. “We’ll be late for work.” Michael’s aware that his tone isn’t normal, tinged with an inflection of internal agony, and sees the way Gavin’s eyebrows furrow with a question that doesn’t quite reach his tongue.

When Gavin scurries off Michael sits on the arm of the sofa. His phone finds its way to his lap, already open on a webpage of local apartments for rent. The solution is obvious.

And it’s for the best.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

For reasons he can’t even justify to himself, Michael doesn’t make any attempts to emotionally break away from Gavin any further. He keeps a more normal routine, going to work with Gavin, going to lunch with Gavin, walking home with Gavin, etcetera. It’s bad enough that he’s planning to permanently place physical distance between them without telling Gavin, and he can’t quite find the courage to do the same metaphorically. He suspects this is more so due to his own affections than the possibility of hurting Gavin’s feelings.

He kept coming back in the game too, even though he knew all along it wasn’t healthy, wasn’t good for him. There’s something about Gavin that magnetizes him, tugs at him like the point of a compass until he finds himself moving in only one direction. It takes everything he has to resist that pull, to begin to quietly box up his things again and make the necessary calls while Gavin’s out of the apartment, he doesn’t think he has enough strength left to do the same with what little strands of their friendship he’s clinging to.

Besides, once Gavin finds out what Michael’s doing he has no doubt that will demolish the last semblances of affection Gavin still holds for him.

So there’s no point in forcing what’s going to occur naturally, is there.

Ray’s words still linger in his head though, berating him over and over about his mistakes, insisting that the line between Wires and reality isn’t as fine as Michael thinks. But that idea just isn’t something Michael can accept. What the hell does Ray know, anyways? He wasn’t the one who held the broken disk in his hand and a month later held Gavin’s injured wrist against the same palm.

If there is a line, Michael’s crossed it. And now it’s too blurred for him to find his way back.

Perhaps worse than Ray’s voice in his head is Gavin’s. It’s that soft and hopeful whisper of, _“Maybe I was the something that was supposed to happen,”_ that makes Michael wish he could rip his heart out so that he wouldn’t feel anymore. Gavin had believed it, honestly and openly, and Michael had ruined everything with his bare hands.

But _god_ , for a moment he’d allowed himself to believe it too. Believe in the possibility that some sort of wires of fate had pulled them towards each other, charged them up like atoms, positives and negatives hurtling towards each other until they crashed together. It should have been beautiful, a wonderful spark of light and warmth and laughter, and now . . . Now Michael was ripping the wires from his chest one by one, severing the ties before he could suck all of that electricity out of Gavin and make things worse than they already were.

Maybe it’s those thoughts that lead him there, that find him standing between a Starbucks and an absurdly large gym. He can’t think of any other reason for it other than Gavin’s hushed whispered hope ringing in his ears. By now it’s more of a wish than a hope, a plea for a reason for this twisted up mess to be revealed. It’s for that already burned out and long gone shooting star that Michael enters the shop christened Video Games.

He’s unsurprised to see the same old man sitting behind the counter, terminator-like unchanging expression fixed in place. And if Michael’s not mistaken, he seems to be wearing the same clothes, too. No matter how creeped out the entire atmosphere of the store and its owner makes him, he presses onwards until he’s standing a few feet back from the checkout.

“I never get repeat customers,” the old man smiles. “Everyone’s always so satisfied with their purchase they never see any need to return. What can I do for you today, sir?”

Michael refrains from commenting on any of the bullshit that just spouted from the guy’s mouth, choosing instead to skip straight to the point. “You know which game I got here, right? _Wires_?”

“I keep a log of all sales,” the man nods.

“So you know that Gavin Free bought the same game?”

“I do.”

Michael shudders as he recalls that Gavin had mentioned buying the disk with cash. There’s no possible way this dusty old coot should know his name. It was more understandable for Michael since he’d used a card. “Wh-Why were there only two copies of the game?” Michael asks next.

The man replies, “Because there were only two made,” without hesitation.

“And no one else came in between me and Gavin that month?” Michael remembers that too, remembers Gavin’s nervous laugh when he’d repeated the old man’s words about only having two customers within thirty days.

“It’s not a very popular shop,” the man says.

Although that’s certainly true, there’s still something unsettling about it all, something that puts Michael on edge the longer he stands within those four walls. “So it’s pure coincidence that we chose the same game? Nothing more to it?”

This time, the man pauses, studying Michael over the rim of his glasses in a way that makes Michael feel like a bug under a microscope. “Sir, I’ll tell you the same thing I told your friend. It’s people who need something that end up in this store. And seeing that you’re here again, I’m guessing you haven’t found it yet.”

Michael feels his heart stutter a little, “So it was fate?”

The man scoffs, “Fate? No. Fate isn’t something you need, it’s not necessary for survival. Fate is a stupid concept that insists that everything we do in life is predestined. And which would you prefer, really? Knowing that you would have found something regardless of what you did, or knowing that you found it all on your own. Mount Everest wasn’t first discovered because some higher power handed man a map, it was seen with naked, open, unguided eyes. And think of what a breathtaking sight that must have been.”

Michael does think. He lets his thoughts roll to standing two aisles back, a grocery bag containing the debris left of _Wires_ clutched in hand as Gavin displays his own copy to him with a light so bright in his eyes it was almost blinding to face head on. It’s a sight Michael’s content to tuck away in his heart, to hold there until it dims and burns out with age. If none of this was predestined, then he has the right to make his own choices, doesn’t he. So no matter how beautiful the light, the electric current the wires had connected him to, no matter how breathtaking Mount Everest is, he’s allowed to walk away from it. Without him the peaks will remain pristine, the snow untouched by footprints and the rocks unscarred by pickaxes and hooks.

Michael gives the old man a brief nod before walking out. It’s only as he takes one last look over his shoulder that he notices the shelves inside the store are entirely empty.

He wonders if it was that way the first time he entered it, with only _Wires_ sitting with its partner on the shelf, waiting to be picked up to begin the connection.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

By the time he starts back to the apartment the winter-drained sun is already setting on the horizon. Whether it’s the dulling lack of light or just the need to be left alone with his thoughts for awhile longer, Michael doesn’t return right away. And it’s long grown dark by the time he comes back to himself enough to check the time on his phone. 10:17. Huh.

Beneath the clock on the screen he notices a bubble alerting him to a slew of missed calls and unread texts. Three from Geoff, two from Ray, and a good dozen from Gavin. Michael has no desire to talk to the first two, and he really should ignore the third, but he’s running out of time.

His new lease starts tomorrow, and by morning his boxes will be being shoved into the back of a moving van.

This is perhaps the last chance he’ll be able to talk to Gavin normally again before he forcefully pulls the last vestiges of the wires out from between them forever. Except he can’t quite bring himself to do it, his thumb hovering over the call button for far too long before he starts to let his hand, phone tucked against his palm, fall to his sides again. He’s just about to slip it back in his pocket when the cell phone vibrates against his lifeline.

Michael jerks the thing up again, staring at Gavin’s name flashing on the screen. He answers. “Gavi-”

“You fucking wanker!” Gavin screeches in his ear so loud that Michael has to hold it away from his head or risk going deaf. “Everyone’s been trying to reach you for ages! Where are you?!”

“I . . .” Michael fumbles for a way to explain and he hisses between his teeth when he fails to think of an excuse. “I’m just out for a walk, needed some time to think. I’m fine, really.”

“It’s cold as dicks out,” Gavin snaps. “The news says we might even get snow. Get your ass home!”

Michael’s heart flutters in his chest. Home. Gavin called his apartment Michael’s _home_. How the hell is he supposed to tell him he’s moving out now? “Gavin . . . I can’t come back,” he starts.

“Then I’ll come to you,” Gavin says as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

“Wh-what?”

There’s a rustling on the other end of the line, and Michael concludes that Gavin must already be in the process of pulling on a coat. “I’ll come get you,” Gavin repeats. “So stay where you are, okay? Whatever you’re thinking about so late out there we’ll . . . We’ll think about it together or something, alright? Just stay there.”

“You don’t even know where I am,” Michael says. Fuck, even Michael doesn’t really know where he is. He’s wandered in and out of side streets, and Austin is not familiar enough to him yet for him to have a clue about where he’s ended up.

“I’ll find you,” Gavin assures, and Michael swears he can hear the rattle of his own heart in his chest at that. “Just like before.”

Gavin hangs up before Michael can say anything else. For a long while Michael just looks at his phone, utterly bewildered as to how Gavin thinks he’s going to find Michael in such a big city, let alone on foot. “Idiot,” Michael mutters, pocketing the cell and making his way to the other side of the street. He’s just made it under the bright sanctuary of a street lamp when he notices the first flake drifting down into his line of sight.

Oh for fuck’s sake, the news was apparently right for once.

Michael flips up the hood of his coat and shuffles off the sidewalk and towards a thin tree line, looking to take shelter under the boughs as the sky begins showering down flurries of snow. As he ducks under a branch, Michael’s annoyed to discover that the trees are just the boundary lines to what appears to be some sort of open field park. The distant shape of a soccer goal post can be made out, and further beyond that a children’s playground. Michael groans and cranes his neck upward to note that the tree he’s trying to take shelter under is heavily cut back, the space between its limbs wide enough to allow the majority of the snow to continue to fall on his glasses. Standing here will make him no less cold and wet than standing in the open would, so Michael trudges away from the tree and towards the playground.

It isn’t until he’s within thirty feet of it that Michael comes to realize that at night and without any children on them, playgrounds are fucking creepy as shit. Especially with the wind whipping up to make both flurries and swings sway in his direction. He takes a step back at the sight, unnerved, and his legs bump against something solid. It’s a miracle Michael doesn’t scream, though the reaction makes a valiant attempt to escape him as he clamps his mouth shut and jumps around to confront whomever is accosting him.

It’s a bench.

Michael lets the now silent scream out in a relieved woosh and falls back against the sturdy, aging wood. The slats of the bench creek beneath him, but it remains firm. His phone finds its way to his hand again and Michael contemplates calling Gavin back, telling him to forget about it and return to the apartment before he freezes to death. He really should. His thumb hovers over the call button until flakes cover the screen and Michael has to wipe them away. In doing so, he dials.

He hears the ring before he can even lift the phone to his ear, and it continues on as a voice breathes out behind him, “I knew I’d find you.” If he hadn’t already scared himself half to death ten minutes before Michael might have had a heart attack. As it is though he merely jumps a little before he twists in his seat to see Gavin standing right behind him, ringing phone in hand. He wants to ask how, wants to demand an answer to the reason Gavin cares about him enough to go running out into the night to be with him, wants to understand how the fuck Gavin still gives enough of a shit that he walked through the first spits of a snowstorm. But it all dies on his tongue, as bitter and broken as the rest of him. “It wasn’t hard,” Gavin answers, despite the question never having been voiced. “I had a feeling you’d be here.”

Michael glances back towards the playground and then down at the bench, the revelation as to how Gavin knew where he’d be slowly dawning on him. No reply comes to mind however. What is he supposed to say to that? It’s not like he’d chosen the place on purpose. And yet . . . Yet here he is, somehow, like he’s only just popped the game into the disk drive and loaded where they last left off.

Gavin’s rubbing his hands together while Michael mulls this all over, breathing into cupped palms until Michael’s attention is on him again. “Heh,” he smiles when he catches Michael’s eyes, “Forgot to bring gloves.”

Sighing, Michael digs into the pocket of his coat and withdraws a pair of fuzzy green ones, tossing them over his shoulder. Gavin catches them and is in the process of pulling them down over his fingers when he steps over the back of the bench and settles himself at Michael’s side. “It’d be pretty god damn stupid if you got frostbite in fucking Texas, dude,” Michael mutters.

Gavin laughs, “Mmm, yeah.” He waggles his fingers in the gloves, his arm held out in front of his face. “It looks like you stole these off the hands of that guy who lives in the trashcan.”

The look Michael gives him is nothing short of confused as fuck, and he glances between Gavin and the gloves a few times before exclaiming, “You mean Oscar the Grouch?!”

“Yeah, the one who lives on the seed street.”

“Sesame Street?! Oh my _god_.” Michael puts his head in his hands and leaves it there.

They sit in silence for awhile, as if the snow is capable of muffling the entire world as well as the people within it. Gavin swings his legs back and forth on the bench, toes of his shoes scraping against the dirt. The lack of conversation doesn’t phase him, and after cradling his face against his palms for awhile longer, Michael wonders if perhaps he’s the one who’s meant to say something first. It makes sense, after all what the hell would Gavin need to say in this situation? He doesn’t know why Michael’s been out so late, where he’s been, who he’s spoken to, or what decisions he’s made tonight. He has no clue. Too bad Michael can’t think of a single thing to say either. His mind is blank with everything but statements that would either make Gavin mad or make him upset. And quite frankly Michael doesn’t want to be the cause of either of those emotions any sooner than he has to.

“If you look straight up,” Gavin says suddenly, his own head tilted back towards the sky, “It’s like going into warp drive in space and seeing a million stars zooming past you. Stupid I know, but it’s kinda cool. You don’t see many stars in the city, anyways. I never did back home either.” And still, Michael can’t bring himself to say anything. “And as it didn’t get dark in Wires, there weren’t any stars at all. It’s kind of stupid, you know, because it’s so mundane, but I’d like to see them sometime.” Gavin lifts his open hands towards the sky, swiping them through the air as if the Milky Way could trail out of his finger tips “Just, like, a whole smattering of stars, the kind you only ever see in movies anymore.”

Michael’s eyes never leave Gavin. They linger there as the other man falls silent, unwavering through the flurries beginning to blanket everything around them. If the words would only come to his lips, he knows he’d say them this time, tell Gavin how sorry he is, how much he wishes he hadn’t fucked this all up so badly, how desperately he wants to stick around long enough to figure out how to give Gavin the stars. And most of all, that he doesn’t regret their meeting, or _Wires_ , as Gavin will surely think he will come tomorrow. His only regret is that he wasn’t strong enough to climb out of the hole that’s still pulling him down. But none of those thoughts can be properly compiled into words, not a single fucking one of them.

So instead, Michael sits there, grieving over the space between them on the bench and watching the snow fall, as close to Gavin as he’ll ever let himself get again.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

The next afternoon Michael waits until Gavin leaves to go to lunch with Geoff and his family before he starts moving his boxes out to the truck. He rented one this time, a small thing he can drive himself because he’s not going very far. Just far enough to tear the wires out for good. Despite the fact that he should get it all done as quick as possible, Michael still carries the boxes down one at a time. It’s when he’s on the last box, packing tape in hand and ready to close it up, that he finds the stuff.

Immediately he knows what to do with it, and wishes he’d found it sooner so he wouldn’t be so pressed for time. “He’s out with Geoff,” Michael says to himself as he strings out the splay of fiber optics between his fingers, “He’ll be at least another hour if I’m lucky, maybe two.” Everything he needs is there, and if he hurries he’ll have just enough time.

It’s sunset by the time he finishes, turning off the lights and drawing the blinds in Gavin’s room closed. For a moment he contemplates leaving without waiting for Gavin to get back, and in all honesty he doesn’t know why he hesitates. Whether or not he attempts one last time to explain himself, Gavin will still be upset. At least if he ducks out before Gavin returns he won’t have to see the horrible, agonizing initial reaction. Except he doesn’t, his legs take him to the sofa almost against his will, and he finds himself sitting on the cushion and watching the minutes tick by.

The click of a key in the lock sets his heart racing up to rest in his throat, like he should be on the edge of fight or flight. It takes everything he has to stay still and wait for the door to creek open.

“Smeggin dark in here,” Gavin says, flicking on the light by the door when he enters. His gaze finds Michael seated on the sofa and he raises his eyebrow, “What’re you sitting in the dark for?”

“I, uh . . . Just woke up from a nap?” Michael tries.

Gavin shrugs, oblivious to the fact that Michael’s excuse is far from a sure statement as he makes his way down the hallway and to his room and disappearing around the corner. Michael starts counting down under his breath. He gets to forty-three when he hears Gavin stomping back down the hall, and his body tenses up with dread. The footsteps stop short just shy of bumping into Michael’s, and he slowly lifts his head to glimpse the figure glowering above him.

“What’s going on?” Gavin says, low and strained. “Why is the entire universe strung up in the ceiling of my room? Normally I’d be happy, and I was for about ten seconds. But then I noticed there isn’t a single fucking thing in your room anymore.”

Michael’s eyes widen at the slip of Gavin’s normally well-filtered vocabulary. He swallows. There’s no skirting around the subject anymore. “I’m leaving.”

Gavin’s eyebrows furrow. “What? Why would you . . .” Michael sees him freeze, hands clenching at his sides. “It’s about me, isn’t it. God, I should have never . . .” He draws off, and Michael can just make out the tightening line of his jaw in the shadows. “I can change, you don’t have to leave,” he pleads. “We can work through this, go back to how it was. I know we can, just give me a chance. I’ll . . . I’ll get over it.” His whole frame trembles as he speaks, like he’s nothing but a container for an ocean that’s threatening to overflow. Michael averts his gaze as he notices the first hint of moisture in the corners of Gavin’s eyes, illuminated by the faint gold streaks outside the window left behind by the setting sun. “Just don’t go, Michael. Please.”

Michael can’t bring himself to lift a hand and offer any comfort to Gavin, afraid that he’ll shatter the other man like cracked ceramic. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I have to.”

Gavin shakes his head, “Then take your stupid fucking stars with you.” There’s a spark of cold, simmering agony in his eyes. “Did you think I could accept something like a bunch of fiber optic stars as a replacement for you or something? An apology? Seriously?”

“It’s not a replacement, it’s a gift.”

“Either way I don’t want it. I didn’t tell you about wanting to see the stars so you could give them to me and pack your bags, you sodding idiot. I did it so that we might see them together.” Gavin grits his teeth, the words hissing out between them, harsher and harsher with every passing second. “You could have at least told me you were going to go, but you didn’t even bother to give me that courtesy. Instead you let me think I could fix this.”

“Gavin-”

“What was the point of it all then?!” Gavin’s pitch is rapidly rising, his voice breaking around every other word. “What was the point of _Wires_ and meeting you and working together and . . . And everything!? What was it all for if you’re just going to leave me here like a bin of rubbish on the curb! I know I’m a stupid idiot, but do I really mean so little to you?!”

Michael surges upwards, catching the front of Gavin’s shirt in his fist. “It’s because you mean everything to me that I have to do this!” he snaps. “I broke _Wires_ , Gavin! I fucking demolished it in my bare hands with the intent to hurt you! I was mad, and I destroyed you and the game like it was the easiest thing in the world!” He pushes Gavin back as he yells, each sentence another step. “And ever since then I’ve been scared shitless! I’ve already fucked up twice, caused you to bleed and sprain your wrist, and that was all done without intent! God forbid I actually lose it and hurt you! God fucking forbid I mess up and hurt someone I love!”

He hears Gavin’s breath hitch, and time slows and stops as it dawns upon Michael what he just said.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

So that’s what it was. This whole time the thought, the feeling, the answer, the solution had been right there, and he hadn’t even admitted it to himself. Now it hangs in the air, hovering between Michael and Gavin like a plummeting comet ready to crash upon the ground the next time they speak.

“Y-You love me?” Gavin’s voice is no more than the barest of whispers, so quiet and stunned that Michael can barely hear it.

How the hell is he supposed to reply to that when he’s only just figured it out for himself? More importantly, Michael’s mind is reeling as he tries to find the point where he’d slipped down this slope into spurting out such things. Was this a recent development, or was it something that had been there for awhile? Had he loved Gavin when he moved to Austin? When they’d run into each other at the shop? Maybe he’d loved him even longer. Maybe the feeling had bloomed up unnoticed from the moment Gavin had approached him in that little, pixilated playground. Whatever it was, knowing his feelings now hardly changes anything. He’s still a danger to Gavin, so he can’t . . .

“Loving you isn’t the point,” Michael says heavily. “It doesn’t matter, love won’t protect you from me, will it.” He begins to loosen his grip on Gavin’s shirt, intending to let him go before things get any more out of control

And then Gavin’s hands are on either side of his face, tilting his head up just in time for Michael to get a good look at the uncertainty in Gavin’s eyes before their mouths collide.

Gavin kisses like he lives, a rush of wild passion that nearly makes Michael’s legs give out from under him. Michael scrabbles for some sort of purchase to keep him standing and his fingers tangle into the shoulders of Gavin’s shirt, clinging there as if Gavin’s the only thing keeping him grounded. The thought of breaking away doesn’t even cross his mind, and when Gavin pulls back Michael he hardly takes time to suck in a breath before plunging right in again. He needs this. God, he needs this. Even if it’s only for a moment, even if it’s only just this once, he needs it. And where he holds on tightly to Gavin’s shoulders it feels as though he’s finally finding purchase on the sheer sides of the hole, the heat where their lips meet like daring to kiss the sun.

No matter how selfish this moment is, Michael would rather be burned than continue drowning alone.

They part for air again, interspersed gasps mingling between them. One of them should say something, express that this isn’t a good idea, stop it all before they both end up hurt. But all Gavin says, his lips so close to Michael’s still that he can taste the words, is, “I’ve loved you since you were nothing but pixels and text on a screen.” He leans in once again, giving Michael no room to respond, fingers weaving through Michael’s curls to push off his trademark beanie.

The fact that Michael never even dared to imagine such a thing makes every spark of contact between them all the more electrifying. He angles his head up a little more at the first tentative dip of Gavin’s tongue. His breathing becomes more staggered with every fresh connection between them, Gavin’s knee pressing between his, the shuddering flutter of Gavin’s mouth when he returns the gesture, the slide of his hands from Gavin’s shoulders down his side to slot against his hips. In some ways, he almost forgets to breathe entirely, their disconnects before reconnecting too rapid to fill the lungs. And with every sharp, brief inhale is just as desperate as the rest of them. The first real breath Michael takes in what feels like ages is when he presses his fingers a little harder into Gavin’s hips with a command of, “Jump.”

He’s a little shocked when Gavin obediently does so, arms falling to loop around Michael’s shoulders as he bounces off the carpet and wraps his legs about Michael’s waist. Michael in turn wastes no time in taking the last few steps towards the wall, stopping when Gavin’s back thumps against it. “Is this okay?” he asks just barely above a whisper. He has to ask, has to assure himself that Gavin wants this, that Gavin isn’t scared of him, that he’s not about to make the worst mistake of his life.

Gavin’s fingers curl into the back of Michael’s shirt. “God, like you don’t even know,” he murmurs.

Michael needs no further cues in order surge forward once more and take Gavin’s mouth with his own. His head and his heart and every atom of his being feels light. It’s the sort of feeling that Michael guesses makes people think they can fly, and certainly if he jumped off the balcony now he would never hit the ground. Gavin weighs nothing in his arms, and adjusting the other man’s position against him doesn’t take more than a moment. Michael raises one arm from Gavin’s hip to brace against the wall near his stomach, and Gavin takes the opportunity to untangle one leg to hook across it, his entire person supported against the wall by Michael’s body.

“Impressive,” Gavin comments between kisses that grow more and more fervent with every jackrabbit of their hearts. He has one arm tucked under Michael’s now, the other still firmly draped on his shoulder, and he uses both to make Michael’s shirt ride up until Gavin’s nails are digging into bare skin. The first sting of the motion makes Michael hiss between his teeth in surprise and bite down a little too hard on Gavin’s lip, a drop of blood hitting his tongue. He pulls back immediately, eyes wide, and Gavin replies by dragging his nails down Michael’s shoulder blades. “It’s fine,” Gavin says. His eyes flutter closed when he speaks, and Michael’s breath catches at the sensation of the first jerk of Gavin’s hips against his own. “It’s okay. You’re not hurting me, I promise.” His hips give another unconscious roll and Michael gasps. Still, he doesn’t move. He keeps himself still through sheer force of will as Gavin strokes his nails up and down his spine. “That really bothers you, doesn’t it,” Gavin murmurs softly between them. “It scares you. But you see that as a bad thing.”

Michael lets his head fall down against Gavin’s shoulder, “How can it be anything but?”

“Fear keeps us in check,” Gavin whispers. He’s somehow managed to pull Michael closer, completely flush against his body, trembling and protected like he’s a tiny porcelain rabbit. “If someone is afraid of sharks, they’ll do everything they can to avoid that fear, right? They won’t watch bad shark films, or go in the water, no matter how irrational it is. But a fear being irrational hardly means it isn’t real. It’s okay to be afraid, because if you’re afraid that means you won’t do it. You won’t go in the water, you won’t face the shark. And you won’t hurt me.”

“What if I already have?”

“I broke the game too, remember?” Gavin smiles. “And I don’t regret it. It allowed me to meet you for real, didn’t it? Sometimes you have to break the door in order to open it and see what’s on the other side.”

Michael lifts an eyebrow, “That makes no sense, you know.”

“Bit hard to be philosophical when I have a boner trying to Hulk out of my skinny jeans,” Gavin says without pause. “So are you going to fuck me or what?”

Michael can’t help but cast a swift glance downwards, flushing as he sees that Gavin’s statement is indeed true. “Promise you’ll stop me anytime if I start hurt you,” he says.

“Anytime from now until forever,” Gavin swears.

In romance novels such first acts between two people are often depicted as beautiful, some sort of endless night of passion. Michael has never understood why the hell that is. With all the lead up they’ve done, all the dancing around each other and internal agony they’ve gone through, there isn’t such a thing as slow and gentle anymore. Regardless of Michael’s occasional pause to assess whether Gavin’s alright, altogether it’s a rushed, rough ordeal. For fucks sake, Michael doesn’t even end up getting to the part where the pants are supposed to come off. The most exposed skin between them is from Gavin hitching the back of Michael’s shirt up and Michael managing to stretch the collar of Gavin’s enough to reveal an expanse of shoulder to abuse with his mouth. There are no more words exchanged other than the incoherent, breathless sounds Gavin makes when Michael finally begins to meet Gavin’s jerking hips with his own. Between the licking, sucking, biting attention he praises Gavin’s shoulder with and grinding force with which he rocks Gavin back into the wall, it’s only a few minutes later when Gavin cries out and arches back to thump his head against the paint and plaster.

Michael reaches up to place a hand between the back of Gavin’s skull and the wall, cradling it there. He feels for any damage that might have occurred as he brings Gavin down for a last, searing, desperate kiss which Gavin uses to swallow down Michael’s own sharp gasps of climax.

They sink towards the carpet with Gavin’s body still supported by Michael, his hands carving soothing paths up Michael’s back to withdraw briefly and cup his face again. “Came in our pants like teenagers,” Gavin laughs, pecking a kiss to the corner of Michael’s mouth. “Fantastic.” Michael’s quiet for a moment, too busy mulling over the too-quick events that just occurred and what he’s supposed to do about them to think of a proper response. Gavin seems to notice, as the next thing he whispers is, “I can take a little rough play, you know. And I said I’d tell you if I didn’t like it, or if things went south. I’m fine. It’s all fine.” He strokes a thumb along the hollow between Michael’s jaw and ear, and starts a bit when Michael catches the hand and brings it down to chest level to examine.

“What about your wrist though, and your knee before that?” Michael asks. “That’s pretty fucking different from rough sex.”

“Yeah, because they were accidents, you silly sausage.” Gavin purses his lips. “Did you . . . You didn’t blame yourself for those, did you?” When Michael averts his eyes Gavin reaches up again, pulling Michael’s gaze back to him. “Don’t keep that stuff bottled up.” He tilts Michael’s head back for a slow, lingering kiss. “If you think it’s your fault, talk to me.” Gavin says when he pulls away. “Let me take care of you and show you that it isn’t. Don’t let it eat away at you. Don’t let it get to you so badly that you think the only way to fix things is leaving. That’s stupid. If your arm got shot wouldn’t you rather try to save it, heal it and bandage it and piece it all back together rather than sever it off entirely?”

Michael blinks. “Did you just equate yourself to a missing limb? Jesus, that’s cliché.”

“All the best love stories are,” Gavin grins.

“And if I eventually fuck up? What kind of love story will it be then.”

Gavin leans back a ways, mouth quirked as he thinks about it, his hands still on Michael’s face. “Don’t know, as you have yet to actually agree to even give this a chance.” He arches an eyebrow. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to obviously, but if you’ll stick around I’d like to start out by taking you to bed properly.”

Flushing scarlet, Michael mutters, “And what about tomorrow?”

“Maybe dinner and a movie.”

“The day after that?”

“Hot Pockets and a full day of gaming and making out on the sofa.”

There’s no room it seems for Gavin to even consider the possibility that one wrong action could make everything fall apart, but Michael doesn’t interrupt to point that out as he continues to list all the ways they could possibly spend their lives. Work, vacations, weekends without leaving the comfort of the bedroom, shared mattresses and shared spaces and shared time. “We’ll take it day to day,” Gavin finishes, “For as long as you want. We’ll never even make it official if that’s what sits better with you. You can back out anytime you want, whenever you’re too afraid to continue and risk hurting me, as long as we talk about it. I can’t say I won’t be upset, but I’ll do my best to understand because, believe me, I know all to well what it’s like to feel like you’ve lost someone.”

And that’s the part Michael had forgotten about, the chapter of the story where he and Gavin had both wrecked their copies of _Wires_. While Michael’s had certainly been more violent, spurned on by grief and anger to a point where he had even scared himself, Gavin had cried, too. Gavin had cared just as much and lost just as much when the disk gave its final, gurgling whirr in the computer. So while it’s not a solution Michael would have chosen himself, he does think it’s something he can do.

Day by day, he can reach up and grasp the hand reaching for him and begin to climb out of the hole. Day by day he can fill it in behind him comforted by Gavin’s reassuring words.

And what kind of fool would he be to merely look at Mount Everest without even trying to see the view from the peak. It’ll hardly be easy, the slopes towards finding stable ground with Gavin steep and slippery, but it’s not like he’ll be there alone.

As if able to hear what he’s thinking, Gavin’s fingers link with Michael’s between them. “I’ll be here as long as you need me. I won’t let you glitch out, as long you do your best to do the same for me.”

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

So it is that day by day, Michael works to rewire them together. There are a few times he almost breaks and has to be glued back together, held in Gavin’s arms until he finds his footing again and realize that mistakes are things that are meant to be made. It’s always little things, getting too playful at the office or at home mostly. The worst is during the first time they try something new in bed and Michael takes Gavin’s discomfort for pain and panics. But slowly, ever so carefully, he comes around. He stops waking up in the morning wondering if he’ll end up leaving tomorrow, stops over thinking every move he makes, and starts being comfortable with it all.

So comfortable in fact that a year later, he tackles Gavin off the end of the sofa during a round of _Mario Cart_ without any hesitation or forethought whatsoever. “You fucking dirty-ass cheat,” he grins, trying and failing to appear mad. “If there had been a way to cheat in _Wires_ you would have done it.”

“Probably,” Gavin snickers.

“Pull that sort of stunt again and I might just have to teach you a lesson.”

Gavin’s eyebrows shoot up, clearly surprised by the phrase that comes to Michael‘s lips without being followed by an apology. “Oh?” His tone is intrigued, and Michael smirks in reply to it, and then promptly digs his fingers under Gavin’s armpits. Gavin shrieks in laughter, flailing so hard that he manages to dislodge Michael and swap their positions to skitter his fingers down Michael’s ribs. “Cheeky idiot,” he scolds while Michael squirms.

They roll back and forth for awhile, alternating between tickling and gasping for air until Michael ultimately pins Gavin, straddling his hips while he holds him down. This time, it’s Gavin who whispers the words, the most repeated sentence in their relationship other than _“I love you.”_ It’s so quiet Michael nearly misses it. “Is this okay?” Gavin asks.

Michael stares at him, the smallest of smiles in the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. I think it is.” He releases Gavin’s wrists, allowing the other man to sit up as he watches, intrigued when Gavin starts to riffle around through his pants pockets.

“I told myself to give this to you sooner, but it just didn’t seem right yet. I wanted to do it when you were finally comfortable, when you were sure.” He holds out a fisted hand towards Michael, “I, uh, framed mine. Haven’t put it up yet, but as it was mostly intact I felt bad about melting it since it’s how we met and all.”

Michael opens a palm as Gavin drops whatever he’s holding. It settles against his skin while he looks at it, a thin, silver-hued ring that bounces sunlight off its surface and turns them into streaks of rainbows. “This is . . .”

“Your copy of _Wires_. A bit too mullered to do anything else with. I went back to the shop the next day to see if the old man had tossed the pieces out, and he gave them to me,” Gavin explains. “Oh, this too,” he withdraws a chain from his pocket as well, handing it to Michael to rest with the ring. “So you can wear it around your neck.”

Michael bites his lip, “This, uh . . . Is this a marriage proposal or something?”

Gavin starts, “Wha- Do you want it to be?”

“Maybe some day,” Michael smiles, slipping the ring through the chain and clasping the whole thing around his neck. “But for now I’m okay with some day-to-day with my boi.”

“You finally spelled it with an I,” Gavin giggles.

“For the last fucking time you can’t hear how words are spelled,” Michael sighs.

It’s far from perfect, and absolutely nothing like their shared home and life in Wires. Michael accepts the imperfections though, that’s just how life works. And arguably, imperfections and all, he’s glad it’s not _Wires_.

Because it’s so much better.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally this fic was about 10K and from Gavin's POV as a direct continuation from the last scene of Wires. It was a hell of a lot shorter and didn't involve much emotional exploration of Michael at all. So I trashed it. The second draft focused on Michael struggling with the idea of Gavin dying, and extensive scenes involving full on panic attacks. I trashed that too. The THIRD draft had a center point of Michael worrying about Gavin dying by his own hand, which was close but no dice. So this is draft 3.5 or so, and I'm still not quite happy with it. Writing on such psychological topics is not something I'm used to, and there was no way in hell I could skirt around it. I knew from the time people started to be interested in a sequel that I had to go into what sort of terrible after effects an experience like Wires would leave on the player, because god knows there'd be some. So there it is. A thing. That was written. IDK if I'm proud of it at all yet, give me a few days to sleep on it because it's 8AM right now and I stayed up ALL NIGHT TO FINISH THIS. Goodnight.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Disconnect and Reconnect of Meeting [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2907173) by [Sandstripe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandstripe/pseuds/Sandstripe)




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